HD 'Fear of Flying' 2011 Valentine Veela Fest
by tigersilver
Summary: Hogwarts years, post-war. Draco is not exactly comfortable with these gangly great wings he's now got. In fact, he doesn't dare trust them, not for flying, not at all. But-he *does* trust Potter.
1. First Night

Title: 'Fear of Flying'  
>Author: tigersilver<br>Beta: demicus*  
>Prompt: #Don't know the number, sorry; link below.<br>Gift to: dirty_darella  
>Rating: PG-13<br>Pairing: Harry/Draco  
>Word Count: 15,800<br>Summary: Life isn't all a bed of roses for Draco Malfoy, recently bloomed Veela. It's bloody full of thorns, actually, and the worst thing is those great damned widgety wings that stick out of his back, flapping uselessly. He must learn to use them properly…but it's not anything like Quidditch, and it's not at all easy for a boy used to a sturdy broomstick. Enter Harry Potter, who seems to want to be of help.  
>Warnings: Kissage. Scant mention of possible mpreg. UST; Draco POV.<br>Author's Notes: Half of this fic effort was a Lightning-Write, practically the moment I read the prompt (which I adore; it's the bestest prompt!) The other took a bit longer to craft, and I hope I didn't lose the urgency or delight that sustained the first bit. In any case, it was my very great pleasure to write and I do hope my dear prompter finds it likewise, to read. Also, I've taken liberties with Draco's ancestry. He has a Veela grandmother now and a French one at that! Oh, and Harry's not an idiot, either.  
>Disclaimer: This piece of fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offense is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.<br>The prompt:  
>Pairing: HarryDraco  
>Era: EWE<br>Additions: Feathers on the ground, reluctant for help!Draco  
>Scenario: Draco's learning to fly without a broom. Harry's there to catch him, just in case.<br>Squicks non-con, dark or death fics/art  
>Maximum Rating: NC-17<p>

**The First Night:**

"Bugger!"

The ground below the Astronomy Tower was very far away. Fathoms, likely. Acres.

Draco eyed it with gut-wrenching unease and wondered if perhaps he'd bitten off more than he could chew. A pure white feather, just tinged with smoky pewter grey, fluttered past his face and blew out and over the sill of the window.

"Bollocks and blast!"

For a moment it floated, tumbling, and then began the inevitable descent. Draco's gaze followed it with a certain amount of terrified fascination.

Fantastic. Now he was moulting, and likely from nerves alone.

"Why the bloody Hades must I…?" he grumbled under his breath. Peered down. And down, following the lazy path of his feather with trepidation. Ewww…it looked to be, er, hard down there, where the base of the Tower met its surrounds; solid and unyielding. Very much not up. "Why is it always so…?"

Yes, well, Draco huffed sourly. Likely the Astronomy Tower wasn't the best possible choice of venue from which to begin his first flying attempts. Even he wasn't foolish or arrogant enough to assume he'd managed to even have begun to have effectively sorted out those fucking feathered projections of his (ruined all his shirts and two sets of school robes already, the beastly things, springing out without notice) and actually fly. Without a broomstick or any sort of propping spell beneath him.

Foolishness, this.

"Ahem," a faintly amused cough sounded behind him. Draco whirled and there he was, the bloody Hero of the century: Potter. "Hi."

"What?" he sneered automatically and lurched backwards, so his spine (and his stupid useless wings, all seven feet of them, whuffling into a nervous flutter) were pressed uncomfortably up against the rough stone and wood of the window frame. Draco had kept them well hidden, mostly; his wings. They were oddly… shameful, for all that he'd loved his Grandme're's version. Hers had been, ah…dainty. Lady-like, just as she'd been. His were huge and sleek, to suit his height and vastly different frame, and were not nearly as snowy-white as Grandme're's, either. Stained with ashy tips, they were just as he was—Marked.

"What d'you want, Potter?" Draco growled, his sneer mutating into a form of fixed grimace. He sneered from habit, and because he expected not much at all from this unexpected encounter. And why should he? He and Potter had barely spoken to one another since the last great battle had ended, months ago. Potter, Draco had decided glumly, despite his briefly-considered potential as a bright light on Draco's event horizon, was likely a wash. Potter had spent the weeks since school started ignoring him. And not even with intent, which made it far worse, in Draco's humble opinion. Just…vastly not interested, Potter.

Potter only grinned cheekily, his teeth a brilliant swift slash in the dim light of Draco's wavering Lumos.

"What, Potter?" Draco demanded again, growing testy, fighting the urge to bring his wings forward; conceal his telling flush and the clench of his fist on his wand. If Potter was planning on dropping by for quick jeer for old time's sake, he wasn't getting any. Draco could always try out his stupid wings some other September evening. One not populated by sudden Potters.

"Draco, I think it's a bit much, really, here. This place." The other boy flapped a hand 'round at the interior of the Tower, with nary a comment on Draco's attitude. It was shadowed space, private and illuminated only by intermittent moonbeams and Draco's tiny Lumos. It was also eerie. It screamed of 'high places' and 'vertigo'. Er, lousy memories, too. "Er, start smaller, maybe," Potter was saying, with a tiny flex to his eyebrows, "build your way up, yeah?"

"Pah!" Draco expelled the air in his lungs fretfully. Why would Potter care?

Harry Potter—the new, improved Harry Potter, the one who'd kicked the Dark Lord's mostly-dead arse to smithereens and fixed up the entirety of the known universe—was staring directly at Draco, his seal-dark slashes of eyebrow raised enquiringly. Which was something he'd not bothered with since term started, despite plenty of chances to engage stares.

Well…not at Draco, precisely, but more at his wings. Those giveaway appendages of Draco's; the ones that proclaimed his condition-his Veelaness, for want of a more suitable descriptor. Draco shifted beneath Potter's gaze, uneasy, and feeling more so with every passing moment. Folded his feathery, inherited baggage more tightly against the line of his spine, until they cramped, the pestilent, horrid things.

Why would Potter care?

"Um…p'raps," the prat added, when Draco said nothing in reply, only stared at him, bemused, "maybe…a running start, at first? From the ground? On the ground, actually?"

He pointed downwards with a thrusting thumb, and Draco's wings gave a small involuntary twitch at the quick gesture, rustling. Another errant feather peeled off, loosened by his incontrollable reaction to the wretched tension building in his gut.

Flying now—before Potter? Potter witnessing this debacle? Oh, no!

No, non, nyet, natch, negatory! Not on!

They were pretty enough things, his appendages; even Draco admitted that. His horrid, lovely wings. Smooth as liquid silk, soft as…as down, damn it, yes; brilliantly pure in their non-colour, excepting naturally those telltale smoke-grey tips, which matched his eyes exactly...

He inhaled sharply. Snorted through his flared nostrils at Potter, jerking his body so it pressed even more closely against the splintery window frame.

"Don't you agree, Draco?" Potter was bloody artless, the bugger, all wide eyes and encouraging half-grins, coming and going like the moonlight. "Er…Draco?"

Oh, yes, very lovely they were, too—on someone else! Draco's sneer didn't slip; in fact, it may have carved deeper grooves on his startled face.

On a woman like his Father's mother, for example, who'd had the innate elegance and grace to carry them off with style. Not him—just not him! Last thing Draco needed in his altered existence was freaky magically-powered propulsion devices; not now, please Merlin, when he was (for once) attempting to blend into the social wallpaper; to become a virtual nonentity. Huge ruddy things they were, too, designed for lifting a full-grown man's form high into the empty sky and bearing him aloft over vast distances. Working wings, and no disguising it, with the attendant muscle mass sprouting from his shoulders, and the burn-and-strain of their extra weight and drag, for all their hollow-bird bones and Veela magic. They were a burden, the idiot monstrosities. He'd been forced to discard his proper robes when he revealed them, donning instead a modified tunic instead of his comfortable, acceptable button-down; loose and unhampering, that improper garb—chilly, too, as it was Scotland. And then they practically clamoured for his constant attention, the wretched things, demanding preening and smoothing and regular exercise. He'd walked miles in the last few months, all by his lonesome, first 'round the grounds of the Manor and then here at Hogwarts proper, making his path gingerly along the edges of the Forbidden Forest and the Lake shore, simply flapping them about in an effort to maintain their health. All of which was directly contrary to Draco's compelling inner urge to tuck them well of out sight and maintain his unfortunate condition far below the radar of his fellow students.

Potter wasn't the only one who didn't seem to see him.

"Go away," he commanded firmly, eyeing Potter with determined dislike. Always barging in, was Potter. Unnecessarily.

It was none of Potter's affair; Draco was better off ignored. No, he'd cut himself a fine figure should it became widely known he had them—or that he was newly Veela and thus mate-seeking. Skeeter would lambast him in the bloody Prophet (Malfoys weren't all that popular a species, either, not right at the moment); his fellow students would have a virtual field day, what with variously laughing their arses off over his fumbling efforts to adjust to his magical creature status and his newly perceived and admittedly urgent need to meet that 'someone special'.

Bah. This whole situation was needlessly, endlessly humiliating. Last thing he needed was a nosy Potter, tripping along with bags of brilliant 'heroic' spotlight to spare and exposing him to the avid eye of the public in the backwash.

"Naff off, Potter," he snorted, unmoved by any and all schemes his Nibs might suggest and added, though only—only—because Draco was just the slightest bit curious, despite himself, "and what's it to you, anyway? Why're you up here? It's well past curfew."

"Well," Potter smiled at him confidingly, advancing in slow steps and lifting a casual shoulder, "I really don't want you to fall, Draco; we all know how that goes, yeah?—and also, I'd like to see them in action. Your, ah, wings. They're astounding, don't you think? And the chance to fly without a broom? You're very fortunate."

"Wait!" Draco blinked rapidly, confused. "What?" There were any number of things quite wrong vis-à-vis this current scenario, but first and foremost was Potter's inexplicably matey attitude. He and Potter had never been 'matey'! "Why're you addressing me by my given name, Potter? We don't—I can't—you've no earthly reason to do so! We're not exactly close friends, in case you've forgotten." Draco frowned imperiously, tilting his chin. "Ah! Is it spell damage, then? You should go see Pomfrey, Potter—" he advised, but Potter had interrupted him, the rude git.

"Because, Draco—and you should really shut that lovely mouth of yours, mate, because it will attract the odd Nargle—that's your given name and I wish to use it and, by the by, mine is Harry." The other boy folded his arms and sent Draco a Look, and he was so close by—also inexplicably—that Draco could literally smell him. Tapped his foot, too, the git did, and seemed vaguely impatient at Draco's understandable gawp. "And you may address me as such, Draco. Harry. Hah-Ree; very simple to say, see? I won't mind it."

"Hah! As if!"

Draco huffed—and bridled—and shied, ready to skitter (in as much as a tall man with an impressive wingspan could skitter) off and away from his precarious perch on the ancient windowsill. All to express his deep indignation at Potter's infernal butting-in-ness; which was really quite a normal, everyday feeling, at least in regards the topic of Potter, or had been, in the recent past. For example, Potter appearing just now like a bolt out of the clear blue was par for the bloody course, it being just when Draco was hovering on the very cusp of attempting an action that would likely turn out to be not wise and not nearly as well thought out as he'd supposed it was, in the first overweening flush of triumph over his own cleverness…and the persistent and bloody overwhelming urge to use these dreaded units he was afflicted with. Draco—after months of being groundbound, was feeling claustrophobic; yes. He longed to fly, to leave the confines of Earth behind him…but, inexplicably, he was terrified of it, rather. And Potter—inconvenient Potter—just had to possess the acid gall to show up uninvited, when he'd finally worked up his courage to attempt it. And he couldn't conceivably understand Draco's confused urges.

Oh, snap! That, too, was something so very normal in Draco's life to date—even expected: Potter hanging 'round, conveniently available to witness him fall flat on his arse like a prat. Or p'raps go 'splat!' on the forbidding, miles-down pavement, which was even more likely odds, really. Plus Potter had never cared a fig for Draco 'ere now…well, mayhap the once, but that was just Potter being his usual Gryffindor self and come over Saint-like.

In any event, Draco wasn't bloody well flying with Potter looking on like a bloody Quidditch spectator—that was so not on, it was insulting!

"I don't think so, Potter!" He was insulted, too. Aggrieved, even. To the point of setting his newly Veela-broadened shoulders in a grim, hard line and rearing back to give Potter a better view of his perfectly natural scowl. He'd a fine scowl; best to use it on the deserving.

"Oh, but Draco—" Potter began, moving closer yet again. "I really do believe you should rethink this one, alright?"

…However, the windowsill rose up only to a certain height—just short of his waist when standing—and Draco was rather precariously balanced, half-astride it, one foot a'dangle in the velvety night air. Which was likely what caused the one loosely mortared stone he'd noted earlier to finally leave go of both its crumbly ancient mortar and its magical bindings and tumble off into space all at once, without prior notice. It couldn't possibly be that Draco was trembling violently where he sat—from fear; with preternatural awareness of Potter's presence—and with Wild Veela Magic, shimmering over his goosepimply skin like an unseen nimbus—no!

"Oh, fuck!"

It seemed a very long time before he heard the 'thunk!' of it, smacking like a peal of doom onto an audibly unyielding surface. It could be that Draco's long arms windmilling about like mad dervishes and his brain shrieking 'Fall! Fall! I'm going to-!' had something to do with stretching each passing second like so many worn-out elastic bands, sproinging. He was never so grateful as he was when Potter barreled closer still, a scratched-and-grubby hand at the ready to stay him.

"Draco!"

"Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck!" Draco, reacting, clutched the edges of the frame with both hands and flapped his unwanted wings for balance. His Lumos winked out, flickering in the moment of terror, and his wand hit the floor of the Tower with a gay little bounce, rolling away. "Fuck!"

"Whoa! Careful, nitwit!" Potter growled, snagging Draco firmly by the nearest elbow, righting him. "Jeez! Gotcha', though! You're alright-you _are_!"

"Potter!"

Draco gasped, struggling for breath in the face of near-disaster, his wings fluttering frantically—and of no earthly use to him, stupid things! It was the Fiendfyre all over again—and, once again, irksome Potter was first responder! He'd nearly followed the unlucky block of Giant-hewn granite…which he could hear very faintly and far off below, tumbling and slamming with decided thumps into the flags of the courtyard as it continued to roll, arse over teacup.

Draco's stomach churned, and it wasn't just the ghastly noise of granite, shattering. His skin burned beneath the cloth, where Potter still had hold of him.

"You're not exactly ready for the Olympics, Draco, so no freefall just yet, alright? Take it easy! Um…easier, at least. Start small, mate," Potter advised him seriously, shaking his head. Draco wanted to slap him—or maybe grab him and snog him silly, just to shut his trap. Either/or would work, at this crucial moment.

"Oh—oh—oh, for_ fuck's_ sake, Potter!"

Draco, gathering his wits about him finally, was appalled, across the board. He flushed with temper, with excitement...and some small amount of shame, for being seen to be foolishly incompetent by bloody Potter. Why must it always be him? What had Draco done to upset the universe so—murdered Crup puppies in a past life?

Oh...oh, yes. He'd been a reluctant Death Eater, that's what.

"Merlin! Just leave me alone, will you?" he begged hurriedly of Potter, who still clutching at him.

That had been an accident, only—and very nearly the end of him—and it would've been a bloody, grisly and ick end, too. Gross. Not to mention hopelessly humiliating (if he'd survived it) and the harbinger of additional rotten recollections for later on (to join the legion of nightmare visions he already boasted of, stuffed any which way in his aching head).

"Look, just go away, will you?" he pleaded, eyes rolling at Potter's idiotic expression of concern. Always, always the eternal Gryffindor, wasn't he? "Be off with you, Potter! Take your arse out of here. I don't need you here, taunting me; telling me what to do or not do! It's not my sodding fault I'm a Veela, Potter—I can't help this, you know?" Draco babbled. "It was Grandme're's fault. And that slit-nosed bastard's, for terrorizing me into it! If it wasn't for him, I'd—"

"I know that, Draco," Potter intoned calmly. He grinned, but he didn't let go of Draco's elbow. "I've read up on you Malfoys, now I've had time to myself to do it. You're all over the history texts. Binns likely worships you, not that you'd notice it."

"Hey!"

"And the Pureblood claim? What a joke."

"Oi!" Draco inhaled furiously.

"But…a fascinating woman, your maternal grandmother," Potter went on, inexorably, grinning in that intriguing way he had; the one Draco daily told himself not to see. "Pity your bastard-arse of a skiving father didn't take after her in more than only the Veela bits—Veelas are a fairly decent lot, eh? And why she married your horrible grandfather Abraxas I couldn't say, but there's no accounting for taste—and at least there's you, come of it. That's alright, in my book."

"Oh! Oh, shut up about my family—and my father, Potter!" Draco retorted, furious and still shaken, and in the barrage he almost didn't absorb all of what Potter was babbling back at him—wait! Had that been a compliment, buried there in the jibber-jabber that spewed from Potter's well-cut lips? Unthinkable! He must've misheard him, the twat. "He's safely in Azkaban now and good riddance to bad rubbish, alright? And I don't recall asking for you to barge in to gape at me, either! I'm not a circus sideshow, git! Get off me!"

While Draco wasn't shouting directly at Potter's curiously friendly face as of yet, he was perilously close to that abandoned state, even if it was well after curfew and loud noises were a decided no-no, this being a boarding school and under the strict thumb of a learned Scotswoman, battle-hardened. However, he did manage to bite back the remainder of the sharp, hot torrent of abusive words gathering on the tip of his tongue, settling instead for a more suitable hissing.

"Go away now," he insisted vehemently, peering left and right and all about for encroaching caretakers, who could assign detentions even to adults. "Stop your gawking, Potter!"

"I'm not gawking," Potter interjected, simply. He seemed so...so absurdly harmless, standing there with the moonlight dappling his features, but Draco knew better. "I'm here to help. I want to, Draco."

"No!" Draco squawked, going pink-cheeked and wild-eyed. There was no way he'd ever allow—it wasn't to be thought of, failing at something as easy as flying with Potter watching the action from the bloody front row! Birds did this all the time; Hades, the peacocks had even been known to have a little spin 'round the gardens at home...but that was no guarantee Draco could manage it. What was guaranteed; no, more set in stone, was that he'd _not _want Potter watching him, ever!

His one eyelid twitched a bit. Well...perhaps there was a very atom of him, a particle, that could stand to have Potter's gaze upon him. Maybe just the singular fraction, yes. But that only in a casual, fellow-student sort of way. Not in any other manner!

Not with pity, certainly-or Gryffindork goodness of heart, by Salazar. That, he did _not_ need!

"I don't need your help, Potter!" First off, he didn't, and that had to be made clear. "I didn't request a celebrity audience, Golden Boy, nor do I need any of your assistance with something as absurdly basic as flying!" Draco hauled in a calming breath, struggling for a semblance of his usual rationality—of the ingrained Malfoy control, which used to be so effortless, once. When had he begun unraveling like this? Last year? Two years ago? At the start, on the blasted Express? "I'm perfectly capable, sod it," he went on, through clenched teeth, stuffing all errant thoughts of Potter's recently discovered sexual effect upon him well back in his mind. "Of flying. Flying is natural, damn it. I've flown all my life; it's not something one simply forgets, alright? So, really, Potter, go back to that lion's aerie of yours and leave me the bloody hell alone! I'm perfectly well off by myself! I don't-repeat, **don't**-require help."

"Now, Draco," Potter actually had the gall to reach that grossly inappropriate hand of his out (the same one that had clamped down on Draco's wheeling arm earlier, 'helping', 'saving') and smooth it down the nearer of Draco's anxiously fluttering wings. His palm was both hot to the touch and yet gentle, perhaps a little dampened from reaction. Draco's shoulders flexed towards Potter's form without his conscious volition, bobbing and jostling his deep-rooted pinions. They ached in reaction. "You're overreacting. You should calm yourself—settle down now; you'll come to harm if you use those gorgeous wings of yours when you're clearly out of sorts. So, erm-cool it, okay?"

"What?" Draco began, no less infuriated. "How _dare_—?"

"And of course you're capable; I never said you weren't, did I? Not questioning it, either. I've only suggested you begin on ground level, that's all. Very reasonable. Control your variables, yeah? For, er, a start, at least. And only till you have them sorted, these pretty things you've got. My… but they _are_ soft, aren't they? Almost like…velvet. And so...long. Long and pale, just like you are. Funny, that."

He stroked them, his fingertips finding their way to the taut skin between each separate feather, and Draco shivered in reaction. Heat was building in his groin; a telltale sign of arousal. He was no stranger to being aroused by Potter; he faced up to that failing months ago. He was also no fool, either. Potter had not shown a single flicker of interest that way—not for Draco, at least.

"Nhn!" Draco had not a single reasonable word at the ready, so he only stared. And stared some more.

"Yes," Potter murmured, expression pensive, nodding to himself. "Exactly like. Lucky you, Draco."

"Bosh!" The sound exploded from Draco's tongue in a brilliant burst. He flinched under Potter's foreign touch, throwing it off, and resumed his glare, right where he'd left off, only more so. "Piss off, Potter—it's not like that!"

Besides, Draco thought, now he could think again, Potter likely had droves of willing, interested candidates for his bed—and his affections. And, knowing Potter, the git likely wanted someone along the same order as himself—a Witch or Wizard he could be proud to have hanging off his arm. A trophy for the Hero. Not a neophyte Veela with something of a besmirched reputation. Oh, no; never in a million years.

Why-oh why-was he even entertaining such a strange topic? He must, Draco decided, be somewhat addled yet by his near-death moment. It was more than time to revert to sane, though. Potter was just a bloody aberration, really. If Draco continued to insist, Potter would eventually go away, as desired.

"I am only," Draco hissed, drawing himself up to his highest height he could manage while still perched atop a windowsill and fretfully jerking his wingtip out away from the git's grabby fingers, "examining the prospects, Potter. That's all. Clearly, this Tower isn't suitable; far too high, for one thing—" He raised an admonitory forefinger.

"Damned straight, it is," Harry smiled gaily, his grin a charming glint of reflected moonlight. "Much. Let's go down to the Pitch, alright?"

"And crumbly—" Draco persisted, raising another finger and gallantly not thinking about Potter being so close to him; right up his elevated nose—practically climbing into Draco's nasal cavities, the pestilential twat! "Damaged and not reliable," he added for good measure. "And highly visible to the staff."

Draco halted in his explanation. Full stop.

For Potter had laid that evil petting hand upon Draco's blasted wing once more and was absentmindedly stroking: long, silken sweeps that radiated pleasure all through him, unasked for-likely undeserved. He should feel quite so good, should he? For he felt as though he were shimmering and seething beneath that careless set of digits; every single Veela cell Draco possessed had gone abruptly into full active awareness.

Was this what it was like to finally find that mate-person Grandme're had always sworn was so necessary for a happy life? This—this vacuous, enthralling wave of mindless bliss?

"Oh, yes, I agree," Harry added to Draco's litany of the inherent evils of the Astronomy Tower for a launching pad, with a sharp nod for amiable emphasis. "Too high, too old. Too stupidly difficult." Draco found himself nodding along, though he certainly had no intention of it—even as he edged away from the dubious joy of Potter's fingertips. "Dangerous, this place. Very. As we both know, yeah? But the Pitch—the Pitch is an excellent idea, Draco; I'm so glad you've suggested it—"

"For anyone in their right mind to even think about taking wing, er—as it were—from here, safely." Draco swallowed; he'd rather lost the page. What was it he was saying again? He blinked, dazed, and examined anew his situation. There was Potter's hand upon his previously inviolate person; the source of a sensual heat he'd not even conceived existed. And…even in the dim light of the intermittent moon and stars he could see the shine of Potter's challenging and peculiar eyes, which were currently shaded a green so dark they were nearly obsidian. All pupil, in fact, and fixed solely on Draco, meeting his own searching, obviously puzzled ones, and paying heed to nothing else. "The…Pitch? What about the Pitch, Potter?"

"We should go there, er...now. Please."

Which was…pleasant, Draco freely admitted, wits awander and well away from any old Astronomy Tower. Potter never glanced in Draco's direction these days; he'd rather missed it, the obvious stalking. Because Potter had once stalked him, the nosy git. He'd always felt him watching, wherever he'd gone and no matter what he was doing. It was—it had been oddly brilliant, to know he'd captured Potter's full range of interest, back then. Not that he'd been the recipient of it since after the last battle—no, Potter had been civilly _un_interested in whatever Draco found himself getting up to, this final year at Hogwarts.

Not that he'd ever breathe a word of the latter-day abysmal lack of anyone's interest in his life to anyone, either. No, never. He'd no expectations there. Not a fool, even if a Veela, he.

"Please, Draco?"

"Oh, er. Ergh!"

He'd grudgingly admitted (only to himself, and only late at night when he couldn't sleep because his new wings were itching the smooth skin of his back something fierce) that Potter wasn't half-bad. To look at, was all—other than that aspect, Draco couldn't say. But camping over hither and yon and fighting Dark Lords had done wonders for his previously scrawny physique. Not that he wasn't still scrawny, or that he wasn't still a stumpy little bugger, his slim form only rising to the height of Draco's chin, but—he was a slight and toned scrawny, stumpy bugger and Draco had also noted (unwillingly, yes, but how could he help it? Potter was always close by, physically at least, in classes and bloody elsewhere, the infuriating little bu—arse!) that Potter's messy mop of sooty tangles would fit nicely into the curved hollow between his own sculpted jaw and his collarbone, if the little prick would just get close enough and bend his handsome, very inviting neck accordingly. Draco had had the inexplicable urge to mark that neck recently; he couldn't understand it.

He huffed; not likely, that! That actually was a very bad idea...as was this stupid Tower! It irked him mightily that Potter would even consider this was Draco's first choice of venue, too!

"Naturally I was planning on visiting the Pitch next, Potter," he announced stoutly, for that also be made clear. "I was only just…surveying this area. Down below, I mean, where it's flat. From overhead, as it were, for—for possible obstructions!"

"Uh-huh. Sure you were, Draco. Riiight."

Potter nodded at him, not a hint of sarcasm anywhere evident. More like...more like how Draco had glimpsed him acting towards the Weasel, actually.

_Not_ that Potter would _ever_ (clearly) and _not_ that Draco wanted him to, either. That was but a silly-arse pipedream and only because there wasn't exactly a great selection of fit boys his age at Hogwarts nowadays. No—_not_ thinking about the whys and wherefores of that! Besides, Veelas were known to be prone to sudden passionate fits, even before they met their so-called life mates. And Potter was fit—powerful—fascinating—and, er, apparently kind?

Not precisely pitying...they knew each other too well for that-but kind.

The hand upon him, that stroking, stoking, marvellous array of skin webbed over bone and tendon—it hadn't lifted once. Draco, to his utter humiliation and sneaking delight, was indeed being petted, like a bleeding kneazle. Which was indeed humiliating—no other word for it! (he rather wanted to lean into the petting, too, even though he knew full well he shouldn't!) but was also…also—very.

"Er, ah," Draco waffled, shifting anxiously. "You, um." He wanted more of this sort of Pottery humiliation; he wanted it to stop, contrarily, before he committed some atrocious crime upon Potter's straggly, foreshortened person. But…Potter only smiled at him in a kindly avuncular way and kept up with those long, sweeping strokes. It was pure, unadulterated Nirvana for Draco's Veela bits. He'd a stiffie; his pants were like to rend at the flies. Draco gasped and sighed, his eyelids sinking shut in a sea of sensation. "Ummm…ahhh," he muttered, helpless. His skin was too tight; he felt squirmy and…and...

"Why...is it? Exactly?"

"Come on, Draco. Say you will," Potter coaxed, never letting up on the torture. "The Pitch, remember? We were on our way there."

"I. I—er."

Draco blinked himself into a semblence of full awareness, valiantly fighting the urge to simply close his tired eyes and allow Potter to pet and pet him, non-stop. So what if he resembled a kneazle? So what? Kneazles had it good, didn't they?

But…_But_, his Slytherin bits whispered insidiously, a certain degree of civility between them would be…acceptable. Perhaps not petting, but...some form of friendship? He, after all, had gone out of his way to apologize publically to Potter for his part in their unfortunate boyhood brangles and even thank him kindly, as was proper, for the rescue that night, from the Room—er, rescues, actually, as there'd been two. And his wand, back again. He'd even—nobly—refrained from pointing out his own prior actions to save Potter's scrawny, stubby, waif-like but admirably toned bum, when the idiot had gotten himself and his pals Snatched, as it went against the grain for a Malfoy to go hunting for—for any sort of measly, skimpy and likely grudging gratitude from Potter, of all people. Gratitude, he thought, was the last thing he'd ever required from the git.

'Gratitude' didn't cut the mustard, no. Watery emotion, that one. Not worth the time it took up, feeling it; better to say he was appropriately pleased the even level of favours exchanged had been restored to balance.

Besides, he wasn't certain, still, why he'd gone and done what he'd most certainly done, that one unforgettable day—practically handing over all those wands to the unfortunate git before him and turning a wildly rolling and slectively blind eye to an unforgettable face, no matter what execrable condition it had been spelled to by a cerebral Granger. He'd _known_ it was Potter; he'd know Potter any where, at any time, in any guise. He should've leapt on his chance to out Potter—and normally he would've—but something deeply instinctual had shouted 'No!', quite firmly and insistently (more like '**NOOOO**!'), and he'd found himself literally at point non plus, unable to admit that yes, this was him, the Potter, right here, Auntie Bella—meet Mr. Golden Boy. Let's hand him straight over, alright? To Master?

No. Couldn't do it. Could. Not. Do. It.

And then, later? After Potter and his little gang of miscreants had scarpered off with that interfering House Elf, leaving him stuck with an angry madwoman and no wand to speak of? Draco had found himself feeling horribly, inappropriately anxious over the lucky idiot, of all unimaginable outcomes—overwhelmingly concerned that Potter hadn't Apparated quickly enough to safety. Stupid mental Aunt Bella and her stupid hexed dagger! Or that he'd been recaptured—likely mortally wounded, too—and this time Draco would be helpless to...to—well. Best not to recall any of that. That time he had certainly been addled.

It had been mental, all of it. A fit, he decided, that had briefly come over him, for no apparent sane reason. For no good reason. Potter bore no love for Draco Malfoy; never had.

"Please?"

He'd been broody already (what with his house taken over and his parents practically pissing themselves and awful, barmy-as-shite Aunt Bella, who was fucking creepy to the max) and then to have that happen? Worrying over Potter, he'd scoffed miserably, scuffing his feet all the way back to the relative safety of his room after the event; fretting over Potter? Oh, dear demigods and fishes, what a sad, pitiful place to find himself! A nightmare landscape!

Couldn't sleep a bloody wink that night and then had woken up the very next morning with these bloody wings stuck on him—and an incipient beak, ragged talons and so forth: the whole kit-and-kaboodle of his vaguely recalled memories of Beauxbaton's finest examples of Veelish pulchritude. Grandme're's legacy. The whole seven leagues and ruddy hell, but Mum (when he'd burst into his parent's suite moments later, practically hyperventilating and screeching bloody murder) had only nodded wisely and said she'd been expecting it, what with all the stress of having the Dark Lord planted in his childhood home and Grandme're. His father—blast him—had gone white as the linens, the Veela-ridden arsehole of giant proportion, and said not one single helpful word to his own son and heir!

Bastard. Unfeeling bastard. Bugger him!

Potter, of course, had had to save him. Later. In the Room. He'd not known how to fly—not then and not now, either. His Veela attributes had been so far receded in fear for his actual life—and Potter's as well, gods help him—they were off whimpering pathetically in a dark corner, the lot of them, good for absolutely nothing. He'd not been able to lift a wingtip to help them escape, either; nor do anything at all, except be grateful to Potter: to Potter's boundless Gryffindor benefice—to Potter's amazing skill on a broom. And what use was all this gorgeously wide wingspan he'd inherited—this opportunity to soar without a broom to worry over—all completely of his own free will, under his own speed, if…if he didn't even know how to go about it?

Well, he still didn't know how, did he? And it was more than time enough to learn, yeah? Oh, and blasted Potter was still blathering on, wasn't he?

"Really, please? 'Cause I think you should take it easy, Draco, at least to begin with," Potter remarked, nodding wisely. He moved closer yet, his warmth rolling off him in fragrant waves, and Draco inhaled sharply, startled into freezing in place, still as the casual fingers that rested comfortably spread across his pinion feathers. "Start, er, smaller. Not that you couldn't do it," he added hastily, when Draco's expression went a bit pointier in the chin region and the cords of his neck went taut in the ever-changing half-light, "beginning from a considerable height like this," he gestured about him, his wave indicating the wind whipping through the windows, the nosebleed-inducing height, "but, you know, this flying shite takes time as well as bollocks. To grow accustomed."

"And what would you know about it, Potter?" Draco demanded furiously, whipping that emotion up to a fine froth. Furious was something he knew and understood in re Potter; soothed into rapt attentiveness to Potter's every suggestion was decidedly not!

He pulled himself away from the wall and the perilous window, bringing his leg back over as if dismounting a hippogriff, and stalked a stiff and ominous step towards the abominably interfering Potter, who'd stepped back in turn to give him room. Draco flapped the feathery items in question irritably in the face of such irritating nosiness. "Where the hell do you get off, actually, giving me advice on flying—with wings? You're not a Veela—I would've known it by now! Like calls to like, Potter!" he curled his thin upper lip snidely. "You're no Creature, you're just a bloody hero!"

"Oh, as to that—" Potter shot back, unfazed by gluts of classic Malfoy vitriol, spilt at his feet. Draco stopped, lips parted, blinking rapidly.

Oh, now, that had been petty of him, he decided, vaguely horrified. Why exactly was he lashing out like this, again? He'd no sane nor sensible reason to do so…other than the fact Potter always sent him up. And it was not at all in his best interests, being sent up. not when this unusual blip was likely the result of Golden Boy's overflow of bonus Gryffindor goodwill. Potter was in the habit of poking his beak where it didn't belong; it would behoove Draco to keep that in the forefront of his mind.

This meant nothing. Potter's interest in his troublesome wings meant nothing, either. And no, he should just send Potter packing, politely. The git hadn't done anything—much—wrong, really, except to lay all too familiar hands upon Draco's person and insert his nicely cleft chin into what was solely Draco's concern.

"Er, sister-in-law," Potter explained, shrugged slightly, an eyebrow soaring high. "In a manner of speaking," he added and Draco bobbed his moon-bright head, as if he'd the faintest clue what Potter referred to—which he didn't. "Um, er, come on then; let's go down to the Pitch, yeah? Shall we, Draco?" Potter stuck out an stray elbow, which brushed Draco's ribs through the sheer tunic. It seared right through the bone. "Please?" he continued, and it was oh, so appealing to simply take a moment to gaze like a mooncalf down at him—just the perfect height for a cuddle, Potter was, Draco succumbed. "We'll be noticed if we stay up here, I'm sure of it—McGonagall's got eyes everywhere—and I didn't think to bring my cloak, sod it," Potter fretted. He nudged Draco's side again, insistently. "We need to go. Now, preferably."

"Er—what?" Draco stuttered, momentarily confused by Potter's proximity. Potter's proximity had had that effect on him, always, derailing his thought processes to other destinations entirely. He should be well accustomed...but then, the effects upon his person seemed far more disproportionate that they had been. His head was swimming with roiling gobs of lust; Potter really needed to back off a bit so Draco could inhale properly. "What are you talking about, git?" he questioned, fidgeting and flushed. "Go where?"

"Running start, mate." Potter eyed him as if Draco were mental; that could indeed be true, Draco thought. Could be. "On the Pitch, remember? From the Pitch, rather. You've just now admitted you thought that was a good idea, Draco. I agree, totally. Much better than a falling one. Hah-ahaha. Hah." Potter's laugh was strained, but he was laughing. Well, snorting a little. "Er…falling start, that is. Yes? Get it?"

"Yes, " Draco echoed blankly, seduced by that laugh. It was a nice laugh—more of a combination puff of air and a grin, but also with a bit of rumble to it, like a growl.

"Good." Potter—blast his immortal soul—made the sound again. "Let's go, then."

And not an unkindly one, for once. Could even be considered a bit…engaging, that muffled sound. It rang in Draco's ears like a Pavlovian bell, calling him inexorably into submission. The part that instinctively dragged its heels at any possibility of such was, ah…losing ground.

He shook his head; the moon, now revealed, was brilliant. It illuminated Potter in all his toned, scrubby glory; made his green eyes glint dark diamonds.

Intoxicating, that.

"Ah!" Draco sucked in a breath; now, what was happening? What was he supposed to do, again? "Er," tacked on, at a definite loss. "…Yes?"

"Draco?" Potter spun away, a hand held out expectantly behind him, and cocked his head enquiringly. "Come on along; it's really late, already. We should make a start, yeah? Get you in the air, at least."

"Well, fuck you, too, Potter!" Draco grumbled, but he went, trailing after Potter and stomping his booted heels to indicate he was deeply perturbed by Potter's interference. And maybe—just perhaps—his fingers brushed Potter's fingers as he swept on past regally, his wings elegantly folded tight and flat, nearly invisible in the darkness that lingered near the doorway. "Right, right. Certainly!" he added, making the best of a bad situation. Far be it from him to contradict Saint Potter's so-sane advice. Besides, he'd just been thinking he'd visit the Pitch next, anyway. He was doing nothing more than following his own inclination, right? "In the air—I can do that. Let's not waste any more time, then—oh, and you're dawdling, idiot. You'll have Filch down upon our arses if you're not careful. Causing a ruckus, as per usual. I'm not at all surprised."

"Okay then, Draco," Potter smiled, his eyes soft with the smile that lurked in them, teasing Draco's attention away from his understandable annoyance. "You go; I'm right behind you. Lead the way, you barmy git."

"I am," Draco shot back, and did so, and all down the winding spiral stairwell he flat out refused to consider why he was following Potter's orders—or why Potter would give a fig whether he did or didn't. "Naturally."

Draco hadn't a clue why he was simply going along with this strange—but sensible—suggestion of Potter's. Falling in with Potter's wishes—even if he'd let on the idea was his. Which of course it wasn't. Potter wasn't fooling Draco—oh, no! He wasn't planning on being caught out by any underhanded heroic subterfuges. He didn't need fixing, nor minding, nor schooling, either! He'd just go along for now and flap his wings a bit, half-heartedly, for Potter's delectation; perhaps try out the wind currents at ground level and satisfy that damnable Gryffindor curiousity. Act as if he were sincerely planning on launching himself into the great unknown, but not really follow through. Well…not as such. He might just…hover. That would show Potter his wings weren't merely oversized ungainly decorations.

He could do…that…at least, right? Better than nothing, eh?

Mum had given him a book on it; a very simplistic one, too, aimed at what amounted to the pre-school Veela. Surely he could do as well as little Veela children did? Toddlers with baby wings?

Surely!


	2. Second & Third Nights

**The Second Night: **

"Oh, hey, there you are," Potter smiled. He lofted a brown paper sack, which obviously contained a bottle. "I was beginning to wonder—"

"What, Potter? If I'd chicken out?" Draco demanded. "What's that, then?" he added, pointing to the crinkled brown paper packet, bottle-shaped. "In the sack? Some ill-gotten butterbeer?"

Potter's smile transfigured into an unusually matey grin. He waved the sack under Draco's nose, budging up close to him in an oddly diverting half-step. "It's Harry, and that's Ogden's. Draco, be pleased to meet Harry—and Ogden's." He bowed, the ridiculous git, and chuckled; Draco's blood sang out like a ruddy Hallelujah chorus. His cock perked up, which was not unexpected, damn it! "Ogden's, this would be Draco Malfoy, winged git, and, um…Veela. Er…thought you might like a shot, actually. It's…a bit nippy, tonight. You look to be parched, too. Very, er, pointy."

"Stuff it with your rudeness, Potter! Shut your mouth, already!" Draco's temper, which still lived and thrived, reared its ugly head and snarled, overwhelming his undeniable urge to simply gather Potter up, sack and all, and embrace him closely. And deal with that mouth in some other—far more pleasing—manner. "I don't need to drink for my courage, Potter! I'm not a yellow-bellied coward, damn you!"

"Not being rude, actually," Potter shot back instantly, the odd grin never wavering. "Just kidding around; make you feel better, yeah? Ah…warmer, I meant. It is cold, nit. It's near the end of September already. Not exactly the balmiest of climes, Scotland. So, um." He gestured with the concealed Ogden's again, from right up close to Draco—close enough to be…accidently touched.

Draco was scandalized, balmy, barmy or no! Potter, appearing here on the Pitch, uninvited and offering him ill-gotten whisky, after hours? Who'd have ever thought? Certainly not he, in all his many thoughts of Pot-Harry.

"I," he stalled, "um—don't usually."

On the one hand, a drink with Potter would be a companionable sort of event; on the other, he was horribly close to losing his grip on reality altogether. Potter was fit, the cheeky little git. Moonlight did things to his hair that should be illegal. Draco was gagging to stick his fingers there. Well…talons.

"Please…Draco?" Harry blinked up at him from hardly any distance away. The paper-clad bottle crinkled and sloshed invitingly, offering to take the edge off Draco's tension. It was very tempting. Too tempting. Everything was, right at the moment. "Have a little nip with me and address me by my name, alright? That'd be so much the better than that awful 'Potter!' you're always barking. Friendly-like, right? And we should be friendly, now. We're not enemies, Draco."

They should? Draco's internal compass reeled. In what universe had he landed?

But then…hadn't he been thinking lately it would be a useful state of affairs, being…civil with Potter?

"Harry," Draco tried out, experimentally. He'd naturally said 'Harry' before, but only in private. By himself, where no one could overhear, like, er, Aunt Bella…or Mum…or Pansy or Blaise. Why would Potter ever want him to—well, never mind that now. He could actually use a sip of something fiery to bolster up his sagging will. He was here to fly, wasn't he? Hovering was the stuff of merest tots and mewling babies. He could manage more than that, he was certain. "Harry, then. Um, right. So, Harry, why did you suppose I needed Ogden's tonight? Doubt me, do you? Like always?" he added the last nastily, but then…there was a bit of the nasty, lingering.

Who could blame him for it, either?

"Oh, no," Harry replied airily, waving the bottle and his other hand about freely. His hair flopped over his brow; Draco longed to push it back into place. Squashed that, instantly. "A little loosening up, though; nothing wrong with that, Draco. Oil on the cogs, yeah? Ron and I down a medicinal dram before every match, these days. Need it something fierce, honestly. Too many memories, yet. Concentration's shot."

"Oh?" Draco raised a brow. He kept the habitual sneer from forming with a conscious effort. Old habits died hard, even with Potter now symbolizing everything Draco could ever imagine wanking over. "And why is that….Harry?"

Oddly, Harry—who'd just been so casually at utter ease being in Draco's company it was almost rude—stiffened up like a bloody poker. Tensed his shoulders, tightened his lips and very deliberately stared away into the darkness that encroached upon the Lumos he'd lit, his green eyes (what Draco could see of them, behind the perpetually battered spec lenses) distant and meditative.

A thrill of uncalled-for anxiety climbed Draco's spine, spreading like wildfire down the shafts of his idiot feathers. He wasn't sure he could quite bear watching Harry Potter look so very…melancholy. Potter shouldn't be like that; he's too much to live for. Draco wanted him to live and keep on living, even if—even if.

Um, no! Not going there! Draco's brain reminded Draco's Veela firmly. Oh, fucking no!

"Er. Fear of flying, mate."

"What?"

Now was something Draco simply couldn't conceive of, not for an blithering instant! Harry Potter, genius on a fucking broomstick, Seeker to the Stars, most likely, and already widely reported to have been offered positions by Puddlemere, the legendary Krum's Bulgarians and likely a host of other international Quidditch teams—afraid? Inconceivable!

"Inconceivable!" he snorted, speaking his mind clearly for once, with no filters. "You? Afraid of that? Don't fuck with me, Potter! You've been excelling at it for years now, blast you!"

Harry only looked at him, blank as an unwritten chalkboard. Draco shut his mouth abruptly and blinked in return, and thought hard and fast about events for a quick second. Opened his mouth to gabble, filters possibly shed permanently and he'd not even had a drink yet!

"Wait! Are you?…Oh. It was the Room, wasn't it?" he faltered. "I did that, didn't I? To you? I'm awfully sorry, Potter; I never meant to—"

"No!" Harry was visibly flustered, all at once, a dark tinge of heated blood rushing to his moonlit features, his feet shifting in their rubber-soled shoes. "No, it wasn't you, Draco! It was—it was—Pomfrey says it's only reaction. Normal. I should recover very quickly, she says; matter of a few months and, erm, constant practice, and besides, I've ways—" he gestured with the sloshing sack, "to cope. Um…want some, then?"

The Ogden's ended up a bare inch from Draco's nose; he could see Potter's knuckles, white and tight. They were individual works of art.

God, he was madder than the average hatter!

"Well, if you put it that way, Potter, then...alright; don't mind if I do."

Draco clutched at the bottle like a man staggering toward an oases in the Gobi—thankfully. Because, yes, he could—did—want. And his want had to be drowned at birth, damn it, like an unwanted Crup puppy. Potter was being friendly only; he wasn't offering Draco anything more. He wouldn't.

Harry smiled at him, tension smoothed away from his clean-cut features like bloody magic. It was a lovely, lovely smile, that, and Draco found himself returning it, in spades, helplessly. That grin also fell squarely in the 'I want' category, but Draco restrained himself nobly, and only swallowed a decent glug…or three. Potter evidently didn't run to proper tumblers for his whisky; he'd no way of judging how much he'd swallowed, except by the burn. Which was, er, also lovely. It dimmed the crying-out of his worse half—idiot Veela bits!

Damn that Lucius!

Passing it back and forth between them, perhaps it was possible they had more than the proscribed medicinal dose, but…still, it was comforting, at least for Draco, to feel the heat of Ogden's finest settling into his quivering middle. He'd only ventured out to the Pitch reluctantly tonight, and only because of the way Potter—Harry—had left it the evening before, with the (possible, but who could tell with Harry?) expectation of meeting Draco here again, as if they'd scheduled a standing appointment. Albeit after curfew, when they'd have privacy and no one would be able to witness Draco's foolish attempt to…fly.

Because it was foolish, now more than ever, with Harry here to watch him muck it up. He'd make a ruddy spectacle of himself and Harry wouldn't—Harry might.

Laugh, and not as nicely.

Well…Draco didn't require an audience, not for his first time. Hovering in place and flapping like some great bloody owl was alright for bloody beginners, but he was a man, now, and supposedly a full-grown Wizard. And Veela, damn it all to Hades.

It would be awful, if Harry…laughed. Or was…disappointed in him. Draco wasn't certain he could stand it; too many memories, and all of them horrid. His fingers closed, pads slippery with sweat—with disappointment.

Far from giving his courage, the Ogden's was stealing it. Harry's face, open and beguiling, was leaching it away. Draco sagged in place.

"I…I don't think I can, really, Po—" he began in a rush, the third swallow loosening his unwary tongue, if not his tense shoulder blades. He shrugged, creakily. "You know. Just like…that. I, erm…I—need more time, I think. Maybe."

"Harry," Potter enunciated, "it's Harry, and of course you can. I have not the slightest doubt of it, alright? You've everything you need, Draco, right there on your back and in your head…'cepting a little more practice. Besides—"

"Besides?' Draco prompted, when Harry didn't continue. "Besides what, Po-Harry?"

"I need you to, Draco. I…want," Harry leant over their hands, momentarily entangled as the bottle passed casually from one to the other, "I want…_you_…to fly." And plopped a damp kiss on Draco's nose—the very tip!—as if it were as nothing, the brain-boggling arse! "Very much so."

"Oh!" Draco blushed. Thank Merlin Harry couldn't see him all that clearly, because the scarlet rush of blood began at his navel and climbed all the way up. His skull beneath his hair was likely pink, even! And his temples were throbbing, right in time with his wayward dick. "What, Po-Har—Po—"

He was flaming with heat, all over, as if come over feverish. A fire burning him from inside out!

"Harry, Draco," the man smiled. Winked, too, cheeky prat. Golden Boy, Saint Potter—Gryffindork; the ancient ragged taunts burnt away in the face of Draco's consumptive, overweening need to please Pot-Harry. To live up to his standards; to impress this amazing boy. And, no, Harry wasn't a boy anymore—and no more was Draco, matching schoolrobes or no. "That was only for luck. Alright? Now, go. I'll hold this and you start. I want to see it, Draco. I want to watch you do it."

"Oh—ah—erm," Draco muttered, not quite sure where he was to start or at what, precisely. "I don't exactly think—I mean…" He'd rather like to start by asking some questions (why had Potter—Harry—just kissed him? That being the burning issue of his evening), but yes, alright…technically, he was here to learn flying. Yes. The kiss—short as it was, barely a blink long—had left Draco some residual comfort, more even than the Ogden's. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, trusting the huge monstrosities that sprouted unwanted out of his aching back. In the very depths of his brain, residing near that congenital need to inhale and exhale, his newly bloomed Veela instincts muttered cheerily: maybe-Potter-will-kiss-me-again-if-I-do! "You're sure of this, Po—_Harry_? 'Cause I'm not, 'specially."

Maybe. Gods, he was indeed foolish. Sod his instincts, anyway; they were no use to him!

"…So much." Draco pulled a face at his companion.

"Go on, git," Harry only said, grinning widely, and gave Draco's wobbly spine a little shove with his elbow. "I'm waiting…and, erm, still waiting."

"Shut up, Harry. I'm just…getting to it." Draco sneered, or rather took refuge in sneering, as it was comfortable. Comfort was paramount now, creeping as he was along on this sheer cliff of incipient panic.

"Any moment now, I'll take off."

He squared his shoulders and prepared to march off, but his feet seemed stuck on something. The grass was very, er, clingy, at night. It had a hold on him. It was rather dark, too, which was only natural. He'd not be able to see to navigate, would he? All the more reason to put this off to another day, then; wait until he was more prepared—

"Going to go, er, right now," Draco vowed, gulping. "You'll see. See if I don't!"

"Uh-huh," Harry nodded. "I see that. Not." He cocked his chin thoughtfully and took another neat swig of Ogden's while Draco was contemplating just how far he should run before spreading his pin feathers—once he actually manage to get started, that was. Or perhaps he could simply continue running—straight on back to Hogwarts? "You're not...afraid of it, are you, Draco? Them, rather? Do they…are they painful to use? I hadn't thought about it, but—''

"Hardly!" he snorted, appalled. "Fool!" As if he'd ever admit that! Before Harry? The twinges, the burn, the utterly awful lack of grace and balance, which had been so much a part of him when he believed himself to be pure Wizard? Oh, no, no, no! Draco whipped his head about, scowling. It was his creeping lack of spine that was ruddy excruciating, that's what! His cowardice, damn it. Shameful!

Potter likely knew that. This was a set-up, that's all. An elaborate one, and deserved maybe, but he'd fallen for it, just a bit. For Potter's apparent genuineness—his lack of guile. Forgotten—allowed himself to forget—that Potter had likely only bothered to grab Draco's hand and allow him to get a leg over his broomstick because he was right in the midst of full-throttle hero-ing at the time and what was one more life on the plus side? Even if it was a Slytherin life...and a Malfoy's.

"Hah! That's so rich," he snarled, wheeling away on a heel-stumble, his wings flapping uselessly behind him, the weight of them impeding him. "Prat—I knew you weren't just here to be my personal cheering section, Potter! You're here for your own amusement, aren't you? Need a laugh, right?"

"Draco."

"What?" Draco demanded bitterly. "Bored to flinders back in your ivory tower, Potter? In need of a bit of sport?"

Draco closed his eyes, shuddering. He was mucking it up again, wasn't he?

Oh, he was. He was.

"'Harry', for the last time, git—it's Harry. And shut it. You've got it all wrong."

"Well, you're not getting it, Harry," Draco blustered, drawing himself up and ignoring Potter's protest handily, his wingtips folding themselves across and over one another with a neat, sharp 'shhhrffft' sound. He was not to be diverted—and, contrarily, he was not to be shown up by some scrawny git who thought he was a ruddy chicken! No!

"I'll prove it, alright? I'll bloody well show you!"

Draco hauled in one last lungful of air, coughing a bit on misswallowed spit, and took off and away down the length of Pitch from Potter running hell for leather, gaining speed as he galloped, wings flapping, and shouting out behind him, over his pumping, swiftly rising-falling shoulders. Feathers! Feathers were bloody everywhere, all 'round him, whiffling and slicing the still air into shreds; it was a blizzard of them. "As I won't give you the satisfaction, Harry Potter—I won't!"

"Good!" he heard echoing behind him, but the strengthening breeze carried away any taunts Po-Harry might have to add to that satisfied exclamation. "Good-oh, Draco! Go at it! Show me, then; all you've got, you great ninny!"

Draco was ten yards above the Pitch and rising abruptly when he twigged it—he was, in fact, using his wings as he was meant to!—and Harry's face was but a circular moonlit glow, spectacles glinting like flies' eyes, far beneath him, teeth white and eerily, ghoulishly, grinning wide.

Draco whooped his glee—he'd done it! He'd gone and bloody done it! He was the man, the top, the ace—

And then an entirely unlooked-for, horribly rude, spiraling magical thermal took him, up, up, up—and he shrieked, unceremoniously, and did a very stupid, ill-judged thing: he folded his wings. Those great horrible projections of his, which still boggled him, which still felt awfully unnatural—like visible curses. Outgrowths of his personal failures—to be a Pureblood, to be a fully competent Wizard—to be someone a person like Potter might possibly consid—

And plummeted.

Cancel the brooding! Draco decided frantically. At this moment, he'd really rather just manage to survive intact! Wait! Weren't Veela supposed to be unnaturally strong—impervious to injury? Oh, bloody Merlin, let it be so!

"Got you! Hang on tight!"

Stupid Harry. Potter, rather. Of course he had his broom tucked about his person, probably Shrunken in his robe's pocket, the non-believer, and of course he could fly like a champion on absolutely no notice, and even with a third of a bottle of Ogden's under his belt. Potter could, that deceitful prick.

"Here now," Potter commanded him, setting his lips into a straight line. "Get your leg up and over—that's it—good job! I've got you alright, Draco—relax!"

He was hauled onto Potter's broomstick, plucked out of the air and plopped gracelessly arse-over-teakettle on that extension of Potter's heroics—his broom. Potter's broom, which had always been the sign of victory to Draco.

Hard, lean and swift, it was. With Potter atop it, it was poetry. Art in air—unlike _him_.

"Fucker!" Draco gasped gratefully, squirming to crane his neck and see 'round his stupid fluffed-out wings—useless things, like the rest of him. Failures. Potter kissed his nose for the second time in recent memory. "Oh! Tosser!" Draco added, rightfully miffed at the impertinence—but not at all displeased, contrarily. Gave him something other to consider than his own abject failure, didn't it? Something…nice, and unexpected. "Perv! That's assault, you little miscreant! Unhand me—desist, Potter!"

Harry growled at him, a friendly little rumble that fried the remainder of Draco's synapses and left him blinking. Oh, the heat that burned in his chest and thighs; the sodden, pounding ache he felt in his stupid cock! It hadn't subsided in the slightest, had it? He'd been hard all this time, all through every bit of drama—and was still primed, his fingers half-curled and clawing at the broomstick between his thighs in place of grabbing at Har—Potter.

And breathless—gasping breathless, choking on literally nothing…but that was only the remnant of his own idiotic fear, right? Right!

"Mmm-hmm. Whatever you say, git. Next time, um—keep 'em spread, okay? Goes better that way, I think."

Harry's voice was dry as dust; no, it was more buttery-rich with sherry-flavoured sardonic tones that thrilled him darkly, but Draco could also glimpse that infectious grin when he risked a glance behind him, hear that heady…purr, was it? He was growing accustomed to the new smiling version of Potter; it was very attractive. And the deeper tones in Potter's so-familiar voice were more like Napoleonic brandy than sherry ever was, leaving his head spinning with potent blue fumes and flitting daydreams.

"Fucking tosser," he replied sharply, with much strong feeling. He had a great deal of 'feeling'; at the moment, all of it attuned to Harry. None of it useful at all. "Showing off like that. Pffft! I was fine—just about to pull up. I'dve gotten out of it, Potter—I had a plan."

Draco set his jaw. He'd hadn't had a plan, but Potter didn't need to know that, did he?

"Uh-huh."

"Put me down now," Draco ordered peremptorily. "I'm not through yet. Not even begun, actually. That was just—merely a dry-run, Potter. A test, you know?"

"Yes, Draco." Practically dripped of smarm, those three elongated syllables. "Dear, dear Draco. My name, by the by, is Harry. H-a-r-r-y. Harry. Very easy. Try to remember it, will you?"

"Oh! You—you great—sodding-!"

Ohhh! That did it! Infuriated, Draco squirmed 'round, clambering inelegantly so his bum and thighs were half across Harry's lap and half straddled over the prat's broomstick, an ankle twining round a boney shin for balance. Clamped the annoying idiot's wind-chilled ears right between his own two claw-tipped hands to hold that messy head immobile and flapped his great irksome wings ever so slowly, tentatively, in hopes of sending them scudding on the broomstick at a nice steady pace.

"Fit—git!"

Ready to show Potter something else, now. Something Veela were known for—a little advantage Slytherin were acclaimed for, for that matter: snogging the daylights out of their chosen victims. Slaying with bloody sex appeal.

"I'll show you, Harry—see if I don't!"

Harry obligingly placed a gentle staying hand on the vibrating curve of Draco's left wing, apparently realizing before Draco did that his pulsing wing thrusts would only cancel out Harry's own forwarding spell on the broomstick, but Draco wasn't paying attention to any old hands or much of anything other than Harry's actual mouth, lips pursed pink and moist in the moonlight, mainly because Draco was busily acting on overriding impulse.

Kissed him—Potter, Harry—Draco did that, (yes, impulsively! Shut up!)—fastening his greedy lips on Harry's just barely parted ones, and then inserted his eager tongue between the giving pinkened strips of salt-kissed flesh, jabbing away. Poking, digging, invading fiercely, just as he'd longed to from the moment the sod had pecked at the quivering tip of his own narrow Black nose and left his heart to soar willfully skywards, unbound from the heavy grasp of gravity.

"Harry," Draco announced, supremely certain of this, if nothing else. "Harry, you're a menace." He dove back in, nipping along the way as a mild punishment. Menace to Draco's pride, Harry was—a threat to his very convictions. And 'menace' was a form of fond endearment, practically. Like_ prat_ and _git_ and _Potter_. _Potter Stinks!_ had been nothing short of semaphore tor exactly the opposite—but Draco wasn't thinking of that revelation—not at all. "Harry Potter, you great galumph, I sodding well hate you for doing that! I was perfectly alright on my own!"

"Mmm, now—that's!" Harry groaned softly, eyelids fluttering closed, when Draco finally pulled back for a breath. "Much more like! Again, Draco—do that again!"

"Oh, I will—Fuck!" Draco spared a glance behind him, and frantically pumped his pinions in reverse, braking them. "Trees, Harry! Mind the fucking_ trees_! That's the Forest!"

"Oh—oh, shit! Buggering Merlin—_hang on_!"

**The Third Night: **

"What, no Ogden's?" Draco asked off-handedly, when they met up on the Pitch at their usual time. Well…he was actually early, but then so was Harry. Hmmm, both arriving early—what could that mean? "You've faith in me now, Harry? Think I can handle this without being souped up on Dutch courage?"

Harry laughed that laugh of his, and it lit his face up. Like a blooming rose, that. On trees of rose bushes—whole gardens, Draco's fancy blathered, and he smiled stupidly at it for a moment, imagining himself presenting Harry with an armful of scarlet, mist-bedewed ro—_foolish_!

"Not at all, Draco. I don't doubt your courage, git. I know you've plenty to spare."

"Oh?" The picture of him and Harry in some nebulous flower garden, smiling foolishly at one another over bushels of blossoms sped away, dispelled by this startling revelation. He'd thought—assumed, because he'd only his view of his actions to go from, naturally—that Harry would think very little of him. Still. That he'd lost any and all respect he might ever have garnered, from being clever, or smart or even simply determined. Besides, he'd not made much of a show of proper flying last night, had he? "No?"

"No."

"Er..I see." He didn't, actually, but that was by the wayside. Tonight Harry had his broom with him, obvious and unShrunken. Draco admitted to a little curl of excitement; he could ponder Po—Harry's opinion of him later, in private. If he wasn't alone up there, then…maybe. "Are you—are you planning on flying with me, Harry? Is that why you've brought…that?"

Draco flapped a paw at the broom, which was nothing special. Not like Harry's old Firebolt or his Nimbus. Just a common-garden one, and likely from the broom shed on the Pitch. "Where's your—"

"Gone," Harry shrugged. "Shattered. No matter. And yes, I am. Thought you might like the company, once you're up there." He pointed to the night sky above, twinkling still and bright, and scored with the millions of pinprick stars that populated the constellations. "And I'd not mind a chance to simply fly, no pressure."

"Oh…well," Draco hesitated. He still wasn't very skilled, though he'd taken an hour to himself in the afternoon to practice braking and landing—two very important items on his agenda. But height. Altitude was crucial and he had to admit he was a bit…leery, yet. What if he went up too high? He might forget what little he knew about his horrid wings and then where would he be? "S'alright, then. If you want?"

In deep shite, and likely with a broken neck, that's where. He'd not want Harry to see him like that, tumbling out of the sky like a perfect ninny. Done that once already; no need for a second visit to Arsehole territory, what?

"I want."

"Are you sure, Harry?" Draco asked, thinking to divert him. If he could but practice a wee bit longer; perhaps manage some style along with the arduous flapping of the bloody huge span of muscle and feather an unkind Fate had stuck him with, he might come out of it smelling like roses. Be, er, impressive. "Because I wasn't planning on much, tonight. Just a few runs, nothing special. I'm, erm, rather tired, what with classes and regular Quidditch and—"

'Potter' had become 'Harry' again, after the narrow brush with the Forbidden Forest. Nothing like screaming a particular name to imprint it upon memory forever.

"You're stalling, git. Get up there, go on," Harry motioned to the air above the Pitch, "I'll be right after you, don't worry. On your heels, this time. Chasing your skinny arse, Draco, so you'd better watch out!"

"I wasn't," Draco huffed, but he stood stock still nonetheless, as ordered, and gathered his scattered concentration, eyelids clenched tight to aid himself in doing so…Harry being the distracting bloke he was. Broke out into a short blind sprint across the deserted Pitch with a gasp and lurch—five yards, ten, fifteen—and was airborne almost before he knew it, the sodding huge things at his back instinctually beating him away from the unyielding surface of the packed-down ground. "Actually worried, git. So there, Harry!" he called out, seeing a shadow rise behind him. "Bite me, non-believer! Not concerned a'tall, git! See? Knew I'd be brilliant, once I was up! 'Course I am—don't see why you ever even questioned it, Ha-Harry."

Draco glanced back through the shield of his feathers cautiously, wondering if Po—Harry—would allow him the conceit. Just to save a bit of face, of course—one ex-archrival to another, as it were.

"Of course not, Draco," Harry agreed, equably enough, his drawl issuing from some point just off Draco's starboard. Draco peered 'round that way, also cautiously.

"Of course not?" he echoed. "Really, now, Harry? I quite though you thought I needed a boost—didn't you?"

"No!" Harry humped a careless elbow at him. "You, er, just needed some more, er…time," he tacked on politically, swooping 'round to draw level with Draco's deadly dull straight-arrow flight. "And a little…encouragement, maybe. But…everyone needs that, yeah?"

"Um…"

Draco gulped, considering. This wasn't his broom, which he understood without thinking; which he could fly blindfolded and with two hands tied behind his back. This was different, world apart, and it was all him and nothing else besides preventing him from meeting the earth below without ceremony.

Okay…perhaps Harry was on the right track. Maybe.

He'd only himself to rely on, true, and he was—he was afraid, yes. Though he'd never admit as much to Harry—nor anyone, not even Mother. And he and Harry, they were—they'd had…conversations, recently. Very—today, yesterday, even. And during the actual daytime, as well, in classes and in-between classes, about nothings and nonsense, but still. Harry wasn't so difficult to be with, if Draco allowed it to happen. And Harry seemed to want it that way: he'd been the one to seek Draco out first, right beneath the beetling brows of Weasley and Granger, too—or perhaps despite them, going by past experience. Though (thankfully) those two non-fans of Draco Malfoy hadn't said a single negative word against Draco—or what Harry was doing—not a word.

He'd been grateful for that; he'd didn't think he could manage to force himself to outright fight for Harry's attention. After all, he wasn't the same as he'd been before his silly wings came along and shattered his life, his expectations—not by a long shot.

Not the same Draco at all.

Draco recalled himself just in time; he was dropping down like that unfortunate stone from the Astronomy Tower, the closely-mown grass of the Pitch perilously near his boot tips. He brought himself up short, the muscles in his arms and shoulders and the untried new ones that arched up beyond that, flowing like conduits down the length of the wings, all engaged in putting in some rather frantic overtime, beating furiously at gravity. They ached like the dickens, but it was a good burn—a healthy burn. Maybe Wizards couldn't fly unaided, but Veela could.

"That's it, Draco!" Harry called out, grinning. He was ten feet above Draco, circling lazily, and Draco just caught a glimpse of the concerned little quirk of his eyebrows before it disappeared into an all-over smile of triumph; vicarious, he supposed. "Join me, you slacker! Come up now! The air's lovely up here—you're missing out!"

"Git," Draco gritted, under his breath. "Just you wait, Harry! Half a moment, prat!" he shouted out instead, flapping all the harder and rising steadily. Oh! There was a thermal! A warm draught of air that would do his work for him! He had a much better idea of how to use those now. "I'll show you some real flying, arse! Just you wait—"

"Right here," Harry purred, and he was, too, hovering an inch off Draco's increasingly sore shoulders. Flying certainly wasn't cake; it took a lot out of one. He'd have to start eating more and maybe— "Right beside you, all the way."

He smiled, and Draco felt like a bloody Hufflepuff; smitten with adoration. It was purely horrid—it was absolutely delightful.

He was an utter idiot, but at least he was being an idiot with Harry instead of at him.

"Oh….Harry," Draco couldn't help but chuckle; it was so…it was so frigging mushy, those words. And so completely odd, that sort of remark falling casually out of Harry's lips and into Draco's ears—as if they'd been mates all along or something. And they'd never been that. "You sop! Do you even hear yourself? You sound like a two-sickle romance novel—cheesy!"

"I do?" Harry blinked at him, and it was all Draco could do to continue his vigorous, ungainly progress upwards and forwards. "Really?"

He blinked. Only Harry could render the act of lifting and lowering his eyelids into an act of heady seduction.

Likely only Draco Malfoy, practicing fool, could be so easily seduced by the same.

"Really…er."

Oh, those eyes. Draco had had dreams of them; scads of them, all bulging with grins and Harry-smiles, all trained directly upon him. Full of glint and sparkle and reflected starlight and…in those dreams, he'd be bold. He'd just bend his neck that little bit, as he was doing now, since Harry was stumpy and scrawny, and then he'd lower his mouth—just so—adjusting—and touch—

"Hah," Harry interrupted Draco's most recent fancy, shattering it. "Well, shit. Just meant I'd be here, if, um, ah, you needed hel—"

"Don't need help, git," Draco barked shortly, miffed at having his delightful little fancy cut short.

He banked a bit, letting one wing tip drift and deliberately beating the other hard against the thermal, and tried to circle gracefully away. Certainly he veered 'round, though likely it wasn't graceful at all, damn it! His cheeks were brilliant; he'd been about to kiss—no, snog!—Harry again, and he wasn't certain yet if that was acceptable, or wanted—or not. And wasn't about to push it, either. For all his bitching and moaning, he rather enjoyed Harry's company. A bit.

More than he had before, certainly. Because they'd never rubbed along before, not as they seemed to be doing now.

Here. On the Pitch, flying. Flying about in proximity. That's all, of course.

Which naturally reminded Draco of some rather memorable matches of the past. Exciting ones, when they'd both had the chance to show off their moves. Fun, really—those, if one discounted the bitter sense of competition he'd always nursed asp-like in his breast. But this night wasn't like that, was it? Not at all!

"Come on, then, Harry," he urged, suddenly eager to put all thoughts of his Hufflepuffian tendencies behind him, where they belonged. "Let's build up some speed, yeah? Get a race on, maybe? Bet I could beat you to Lake!"

"Oh—well, er, sure!" Harry startled, did a little sideways swoop and then laughed. "Right, you're on! I'm game, Draco."

"What'll we bet then? What stakes?"

Draco pushed himself a little more, drawing ahead.

That was it—physical exercise. He just needed more of it, enough to tire him, and then he wouldn't suffer these odd little impulses—these unaccountable fits. And a dare—a sporting wager—to divert his mind from…whatever it needed diverting from. "As I do want to see what these things can do, Harry, but."

"But?"

"You have to make it worth my while, yeah?"

Harry laughed again; a chuckle that sent the blood surging to Draco's bits. "Git. How about who brings the bottle next time?"

"Super! That'll do! One your mark, ready, steady-"

"Bastard! Hold up!"

But Draco was already speeding away, his course set, his wings buoyed up by enthusiasm in his newly discovered talent. Here was (finally!) a place where he held the advantage!

His enthusiasm, though…it wasn't entirely true. Draco could admit that, privately. But most of it was, in the end. Not many had wings they could call their very own, as pesky as they were to deal with in reality. And not everyone had a Veela heritage, either, and Draco had adored his Grandme're. Had wanted to be like her—in a manly way, of course. But she'd been so pretty, and so loved, even by his crotchety old Grandfather, and everyone had adored her charm and her graces. When she'd passed on, Grandfather Abraxas had been sodding inconsolable—and eventually just a bloody sod, as he remembered it.

Perhaps it would be of use to him, being Veela. Might serve to make up for the Malfoy name, in a way. Mayhap he'd find someone worthy—not Potter, of course—but someone, who might…eventually…come to admire him despite himself. Er…care. For Draco.

"Draco?" Harry's voice was far away, and Draco barely heard it for a moment. He looked back behind, searching for that familiar slight form. "Draco! Higher, alright? There's another air current up here—a better one. I can feel it! It's like swimming, git! Buoys you right up, Draco. Come up and have a free ride, yeah? Take a damper, enjoy it."

"Oh!" Draco once again reined his wandering thoughts in. He was—what? A hundred yards above the ground and going nearly as fast as he ever had on a broom. And all of that was entirely him—no broom? "Oh gods, yeah—_that_ I could use, Harry. That I could use."

And he rose, to swoop about Potter. Harry. Untouchable Harry Potter, trapped on his Wizard's broom with no wings to free him.

Draco was visited with the thought that Harry, of all people, should be the one given wings. He deserved them; he'd make a symphony of them.

…But not the other—the Veela part. Draco wouldn't wish the other on Harry; not for a ruddy instant. No one should have to crave another human being to this degree and then be expected to simply grin and bear it.


	3. Fourth Night

**The Fourth Night: **

Potter—Harry—he didn't show. Draco dragged his heels disconsolately 'round the grounds of the Pitch for twenty minutes before finally taking to the air. His wings felt slow and tacky—very weighty and dull-edged; muzzy—and all his feathers seemed ruffled and out of place at the root.

Draco sulked for another twenty, flying lopsided circles, feeling pricklier by the moment. Through hoops and 'round wickets, always sending furtive glances to the ground below. And resolved several times over that when Harry deigned to show his face, he would most definitely snap at him.

It was rude to keep a person waiting about—very.

A full hour's passage, punctuated with ever-widening, altitudinous circles, delivered Draco unto a state of incipient anxiety.

What had kept Harry, anyway? Was he bored now, now that Draco seemed to have gained the hang of it? The flying—not the socializing, that was.

Or…was he…tiring…already, when they'd just rediscovered one of the few pleasures they had in common? Draco had rather steered away from incendiary topics for the most part (that being nearly the whole of their past); perhaps Potter was bored of keeping to milquetoast topics, like classwork and Quidditch?

Come to think…Harry had missed Potions this afternoon. And he'd not looked too well at luncheon, either. Rather squiffy. Peaky about the eyes and mouth and, well, pathetic. Draco had tried to get near enough him to ask, but Granger and the Weasel had closed flanks right smart, and Harry was lost behind a phalanx of sturdy Gryffindors and well nigh inaccessible.

Draco fretted, biting his lips miserably. All the while soaring along with a grace he was completely unaware of and at a height that would've likely startled him, had he bothered to note just exactly how high above the Pitch he'd achieved, not minding. But he only noted the obvious and disturbing lack of Harry.

It was…disappointing, that. Draco didn't like it. Not that he hadn't been expecting it, rather…but he didn't have to like it, did he?

'Course, it was no real business of his if Harry—if Potter had chosen some other pastime to occupy his evening. Perhaps the Weasel or Granger had wanted him, instead. Draco could understand that, really—they did have prior claim.

How unfortunate.

…Of course, if Harry would like to make it so, Draco wouldn't be adverse.

Draco's business, that was.


	4. Fifth Night

**The Fifth Night: **

He liked it less and less all day long: no Harry in classes; no Harry at supper. And the Gryffindor lot only poked heads together and whispered amongst themselves, making it highly difficult to eavesdrop. Draco hovered offsides and downwind, his ears stretched wide for a name-drop or details, hoping to grab one or the other of them and ask a few pertinent questions, but the opportunity never came. After, the pestilential Gryffs all rushed off to their bloody Common Room as one herd and not even ruddy Granger emerged to immerse herself in the Library stacks, as per her usual wont.

Draco knew that for fact because he was stationed a few yards down the corridor from the horribly Hufflepuffian cow of a coloratura who guarded their door. But there wasn't a soul stirring after curfew had come and gone, not even a Gryffindor mouse.

He didn't bother with the Pitch that night, electing instead to head straight for his dorm room and his fourposter after his extended lurking session. Some vagrant sixth sense advised him Harry wouldn't be there, either; he'd be wasting his time, waiting about. Draco climbed into bed earlier than usual instead, only to lay tossing and turning, thinking up all manner of horrid thoughts—some rather decidedly worse than his workaday nightmares.

Harry ill, Harry feverish. Harry injured, Harry in danger. Harry with his lips dry and chapped from sickness; Harry, delirious, lonely.

Harry, alone and lonely, somewhere. Cast away—damaged—needing a helping hand. A caring hand, rather.

Harry, landed in the Infirmary, as he'd been so many times before (Draco didn't like to recall the occasions he'd sent Harry there directly, over the years; left him shuddering, that, but at least he'd no intention of doing it again)—but Harry! Harry!

Harry. In...the...Infirmary. Of course!

"Bloody hell!"

With a stifled gasp, Draco was up, donning slippers and a hastily thrown cloak about his PJs and gone from the silent dungeons like a gale through the moors.

Harry!

He hadn't wanted to admit it. Hadn't dared to allow his active mind to dwell too often or too much on Harry. Potter. Harry Potter. Like a drumbeat in his blood, a jolt through his chest, a harpoon that tied him to earth, no matter how hard he flapped his bloody great wings, seeking freedom. Harry, Harry, Harry.

Harry was exactly, precisely why he'd returned to Hogwarts; Harry was the sole reason he was alive to do so. Harry—even just the image of him, last spring, all banged up and spare-boned face swollen—had consumed Draco alive from the inside out; had eaten him up for years on end, like a wasting illness. No—the exact opposite! Harry sustained him, the scrubby bugger; was_ life_ and_ excitement_ and _brilliance_ and all Draco could ever desire—to wank to, to trail after—to resent—to want. All, in truth, a disgruntled late-bloomer of an angsty teenage Veela could ever envision within 'the' perfect mate; all a newly disgraced though grudgingly exonerated Malfoy heir could hope to befriend—or more, mayhap, one day—through sheer happenstance. Oh, but—

Fucking hell. Harry in the Infirmary! That was unbearable!

It was the oddest feeling ever: raptures tainted with terror.

Harry_ was_ kind, and he _was_ fit. He was thin—too thin, which Draco hated, incidentally, as it left him fretting and wanting always to stuff second helpings down that pretty throat—and he was difficult to second-guess and Draco's lips needed Harry's lips something fierce. Required them. His cock ached, his chest hurt, and his swift feet fair flew over the uneven flagstones, up repaired staircases and down endlessly, ridiculously winding corridors, and there was no way he'd be stopping his barmy bolt through Hogwarts castle until he'd determined once and for all if Harry was indeed ensconced safely in the Infirmary, as every speck of Veela intuition screamed he must be.

Key being 'safely'. If Madam Pomfrey had him in care, then it couldn't be too terrible, could it?

If there were something wrong with Harry, Draco would just die. Right on the spot, flat out. There'd be nothing left to live for—he was that far gone.

What a fool, not to realize it, ever so much the sooner! What an arse, to deny it!

Oh, gods, let it be alright! Draco prayed fervently—it was a measure of his fear that he prayed at all. What had prayers done him last year—or the year before, for that matter? But yet—

Let him be alright—let Harry be well and just as tiresome as ever—just as saintly and golden and gorgeous, or so Draco's silent rosary went, ticking over Potterly attributes like beads of amber—and he ran. Rushed with nary a thought to curfew or consequences. Like the bloody wind.

The Infirmary door was warded fast shut, as well it should at this late hour. Draco couldn't very well knock Madam out of her bed, either. That wouldn't do at all, and he'd get nowhere near his goal, which was to see if Harry was—was still breathing the way he should be, still resident in the world.

Draco berated himself, pacing frantically before the adamantine ornate lock: of course and without a doubt, Harry was well enough. Logically, naturally—of course. The Gryffs would've been beside themselves with grief; nay! The entire world! And _he'd_ know, Draco would—deep inside, where his heart was rattling as he panted from his all-out scramble, up stairs and down corridors—he'd know. He'd be left a mere half of himself, maybe less, and be fading fast. Such was Veela.

_So, er,_ Draco noted again, kicking it petulantly, the door to the Infirmary was closed. No entry. Right…but. So what? The Infirmary boasted windows, and Draco Malfoy possessed wings. Wings, wings, glorious wings! No need for a broom; he could just fly to Harry!

Draco, having done with all that bloody, exhausting thinking, after that one final brilliant deduction, and really only feeling and wishing to be left in peace to do so, dove through the closest open hall window sideways and at a full frantic gallop, only to find extremely abruptly himself one storey below where'd he'd just emerged and falling fast. The wind screamed in his eardrums and practically tore his fluttering wings open by sheer main force, as if it wanted Draco to join with it—a creature of the air.

"Salazar! Fuck me!" he shrieked, and instantly went at the business of using those unwanted wings of his, double-quick time. "Fuck. Me! Oh—my—sodding Salazar!" he croaked weakly, having leveled at last. "_That_ was too bloody close!"

Had been a narrow squeak, but he was still all in one piece and rising.

A thermal! Draco grinned merrily as he flew-flail-fumbled across it, vastly pleased.

And there—there, again with the steady flap, the upwards thrust.

"Finally, for fuck's sake!" Draco heaved a heady sigh of exhilarated relief, huffing with effort. The business of vertical left his shoulders burning but the pain was perhaps pleasant, now he was more accustomed; a good solid work-out after hours of anxious inactivity. Too, he'd stabilized and was even propelling his person in the direction he needed to be heading, surging forward on wings of steely determination toward his one most excruciatingly important goal; banking and turning close and tight 'round the curves of Hogwart's walls, his breath coming fast and sharp between his parted lips, teeth chattering with the chill and the excitement. And chanting to himself, only half-aware of his own voice, reedy and froggy both with fear and effort. "Come on, come on, come on!" he urged his body. "Just a little bit more, alright? And fa-faster!"

It was chilly, it was stygian dark when the clouds sailed the wrong direction across the face of Old Man Moon and it was ruddy confusing, what with all the intervening ruddy towers and protuberances Hogwarts boasted. He had to worm his way through the air to locate the bank of windows he knew faced the south side of Hogwarts. Even so, he knew them all well, from past years and Quidditch, long ago—and, too, the Veela lent him an unexpected favour. The smell of Harry could be discerned, ever so faintly.

Draco followed his instincts, fiercely.

The Infirmary window he chose at attack was a bit tricky, presenting a logistical quandary. He had to grapple with the exterior latch (he'd forgotten his wand in his hurry) to open it, all whilst still flying in place, and it was rusted almost fast-shut, the horrid metal. Very tricky indeed but he still managed, gritting his teeth and breaking off a few talons as he dug into the wood, splintering the frame to kindling and all the while squawking softly to himself in an excited burble. Incidentally picking up a bloody scrape down the surface skin of one palm, too.

No matter. Hurt like the sodding dickens; meant not a thing to a determined Veela.

Bloody and unbowed; in fact, feeling quite triumphant, Draco ducked under the stone of arching lintel and gained the Infirmary proper, his wings—lovely wings—folding down upon themselves neatly. Cast immediately a quick wandless silencing charm on the noisy wet sound of his own gasping, when he realized it echoed. Shut his eyes then and breathed deep, willing the incipient beak his proper human nose and mouth had become during flight to subside, so he wouldn't frighten Harry with the mere sight of him when he found him. Flexing his fingers as well, so the bloody, broken talons would retract and he'd look alright all 'round—like a proper Wizard again and not an overwrought Veela. He was not Grandme're, no. She'd been beautiful, even like this. He was only a poor frantic Creature, bedraggled and pop-eyed and likely ugly as sin—bloody, dusty, wind-burnt, but…. But, Draco reasoned, if this was what it required to actually fly to Harry's side, Draco would accept it.

He would.

He must. And when he dared peek at his hands and press them carefully to his Malfoy nose, sorting out his state and condition, he was pretty much himself again—except for those sodding useful wings of his. Which Harry, oddly enough, seemed entirely too entranced with most times, the idiotic twat.

Harry—who thought flying to be the ultimate freedom; who believed Draco to be a lucky sod, what with having the means to do so completely unfettered.

Harry!

Now—next, to locate Harry, and see, with his own eyes, that his—_his_ Harry was alright. Just as he'd endlessly assured himself Harry absolutely was. Likely suffered a chill, the stupidhead—the fool hadn't worn a cloak over his robes on any of the three nights they'd met and he'd no wings to warm him with feathers, the berk! Or could be his gut, falling foul of the Ogden's at last. Certainly the Ogden's had been potent!

And not _his Harry_, either, technically, but that didn't matter at the moment. Draco could sort that later, when he'd time. Attempt to sort that, rather.

He set out with a great air of determination, searching, but Draco hadn't recalled the Infirmary being such a rabbit warren. It must've been expanded after the war. There were tiny rooms everywhere and a million faceless doors before them, all shut, none marked 'Potter, Harry'. He methodically opened every one until he realized he still possessed Veela senses. And, if it was Harry for him (and it certainly seemed to be; Harry was all he dreamt of; the only one he could imagine in any proximity to his dick or his arse or his bloody anything, bits-wise) then Draco concluded he could simply, er, 'feel him out', or ah, er, sense Harry's presence, just by—just like…this!

He closed his eyes. He concentrated, coming to a halt, spinning slowly in place. His wing tips lifted at his back, the misty grey catching the intermittent moonlight and glowing pewter.

And Draco tried the breathing thing again, for real. Not gasping, not panting, not holding his lungs taut in painful reserve out of sheer nerves and anticipation. In and out, like a normal person.

Closing his eyes and concentrating for all he was worth, for his heart would lead him there—to Harry. Utterly gagworthy drivel; yes, it _was _and worthy of _Witch Weekly's_ serialized tales of romance,_ yes_, but true enough, all the same, as Draco found himself miraculously poised before yet another blandly white-painted door, shut tight but thankfully not locked against his entry.

He didn't bother to knock.

"Harry?"

Draco was through it and by the bedside of his Harry in a split-second's time, bending down, his ruffled wings dragging heedlessly behind him. The feathers were damp and tangled at the ends, and they were a bit bedraggled yet with effort. He folded them as close to his spine as he could, not wanting his mate to see him so—

So poorly, by sheer comparison.

"Harry?"

Was sleeping the sleep of the just, little git—precious prat. And seemed healthy, as well, though p'raps a little paler than normal…but then that could be the moonlight, too. It had emerged, triumphant, casting the scudding clouds well out of the sky. It lit up Harry's slumbering face like a bleeding spotlight—and his open-necked pajamas…and the hand that lay half-curled upon the coverlet.

"Oh, Harry, you idiot," Draco breathed, and laid his hand—the bloody one, because he wasn't thinking at all—upon Harry's marked brow and his tumbled hair. Smoothed the surly, contrary tendrils back and away from damp skin and dropped a quiet kiss square upon the scar that had fascinated him for more than a decade. Edged a hip onto the tiny gap of mattress the narrow cot was furnished with so he could allow his knees time to realign themselves and (a decided plus, here) have a real chance to feel Harry's warmth seeping over and through to his taut thigh, currently budged up close by and right next to him, where all Harry's warmth belonged. In theory—and now in practice. "Harry," he whispered, mindful of the Infirmary's code of 'no unnecessary noise, boys!' "Harry, I'm so glad. I've missed you so; can't tell you how much. Dreary; it's been very dreary."

He said more; poured out words he couldn't quite recall in his relief. Would like be distraught later, had he comprehended that it was he, Draco Malfoy, confessing them—and to Harry Potter. But Draco didn't heed a whit of that, only pressed his leg harder, bent his neck farther, and murmured more idiotic soppy things. Generally made a ruddy fool of himself altogether, there in the haven of the Infirmary—till Harry stirred at last, shifting the hand Draco had grabbed and clutched and tossing his messy head about upon the pillow.

Familiar green eyes cracked opened, just a slit. Unguarded, which was strange to Draco—he stared, reeling back.

"Draco?"

He'd been just in the midst of delicately licking away the tiny smear of dried blood he'd carelessly left upon Harry's brow when he heard it—that beloved voice. He smiled foolishly down at Harry; he couldn't halt the spread of the smile, either, ridiculous at it likely was, to be where he was, as he was, beaming like a loony. But—he was so desperately relieved to hear Harry's voice at long last, t'was a balm to his pointy Veela ears.

"You prick, Harry!" In truth, Draco was so relieved, he was bloody furious. "You could've simply told me you didn't feel well! I was beside myself when you didn't come to the Pitch, idiot—imagining all manner of horrible, terrible—_next time_, you thoughtless twat, you must inform me first!" Draco glared at Harry, seeking to impress this simple fact upon him. "Common damned courtesy, Harry—get some!"

"Arr-um?"

Harry blinked up at him, slowly, and then squinted, casting a wandering hand over to the bedside table for his specs. Draco located them easily and gave them over, watching fondly as Harry settled them in their rightful place.

"Mmmfph?"

The eyes that met his were keen and green-black in the dim light, no longer dazed with sleep, and chock full of curiosity behind their protective lenses. Draco sighed at the sight of them, feeling both excessively pleased and…a bit curious, himself. Harry looked well enough, if a tad tired. Healthy, with no obvious holes or wounds. Was there truly something else wrong with him—something Draco didn't know about?

"Harry?"

The question was poised on Draco's lips but Harry nipped in first—as was par.

"What're you doing here, Draco?" he asked, struggling up on his elbows against the mound of thin medical-issue pillows. "Didn't you receive my note?"

"What note?" Draco blinked, taken aback. "I've no note, Harry."

"I sent it off to you two days ago," Harry replied. "Informed you I couldn't make the Pitch that night—or last night either, obviously. I'm involved in this sleep-therapy spell treatment with Madame every week. Didn't you know?"

"No…" Draco swallowed. "No one told me that—and I didn't receive any stupid note, either!" He stifled his natural ire at that slip-up in favour of his building curiousity, which was rampant, much like Harry's. For a moment they eyed each other, sizing each other's state and condition. Then Draco cleared his throat. "Er, why, exactly? Are you truly ill, Harry? Is there something really wrong with you—your body? Because I can call in better Healers than even Madam—top-notch ones, I mean, the best Galleons can buy, Harry—and we'll get you fixed right up, don't worry—so please,_ please. _Just say what's wrong with you and I'll go and floo—"

"But I did, " Harry protested, feebly thrashing his elbows and knees in an effort to sit himself up even higher, presumably so he could rest against the headboard. "I did say, Draco. That's what I don't understand. You should know—should've known."

"I should?" Draco questioned that but then he was busily, capably taking over for Harry instantly, sliding a hand behind his mate's shoulders and another 'round his waist. Hauling him upright gingerly and plumping pillows about his person, cocooning Harry with all manner of soft things. His wings ached to join in, to enfold Harry altogether and bring him close to Draco's still too-rapid heart, but…likely it was too soon for that. _Never_ might be too soon for that, still and all, he nurtured hopes, did he not? If Harry had thought to send him a note—even he'd never received it—well, that was a hopeful turn of events, wasn't it?

"Better?"

"Oh—er, yes, thanks," Harry treated him to a careless grin before he returned to that so-serious expression he could assume upon occasion: the one that said he meant to get to the bottom of a mystery. He stared at Draco's creased brow intently, taking in the concern his visitor couldn't be bothered to disguise. "Um, I really did try to let you know, Draco. Was an Owl, actually—not just a note. Said I'd meet up you tomorrow night, on the Pitch. Really, Draco—no lie."

"Huh," Draco humped his shoulders slightly. "Well, I didn't receive it, then."

"Wonder what happened to it, then? I gave it straight over to Ron and them to send off to you. I swear I did; I'd jotted myself a note to be sure to remember to send it." Harry blinked, a slow scowl dawning. "Hmmm. That bears looking into, what?"

"Doesn't matter, Harry," Draco said impatiently, brushing it off. "Really, _not_." He'd nobly ignore the matter of the failings of the ginger-haired git for the moment; Harry's overall health was far more important and he'd still no answer to his question. "It only matters that I know of it now. Now at least I can _do_ something about it, Harry, whatever it is that's ailing you. For starters, we can transport you to St. Mungo's, at least—locate a specialist for you. I'll Owl my Mum, too. She knows everyone there is to know, y'see, and people still speak to her, even if not _me_—"

Unbeknownst to Draco, his voice was rising, on level with this new fever of concern in his blood. Harry _was_ ill—Harry must then be coddled and cured, stat. And he held the means to do so—more than the Weasel did, or even Madame Pomfrey. He'd wealth, and his Mum still had connections, and there must exist an expert on the planet skilled in—in?

"You;ve still not said, Potter! Why are you here? What's your diagnoses, Harry?"

"Draco! Quiet down, will you?" Harry shushed him, flapping a cautionary hand. "Shhh! Pomfrey'll hear!"

"Oh, but, Harry—!"

"Calm yourself, nitwit! I'm really alright, alright? This is just some leftover business, this not sleeping well. Or, um, much. But Madam says insomnia's normal, after all that—last year; _you_ know—and I'll be well very soon, she also said. Promised me it, even. It'll work itself out, trust me."

"But what precisely_ is_ wrong with you, Harry?" Draco demanded. "Tell me! Tell me _exactly_. Details, damn it!"

Harry looked away abruptly, lifting his chin and treating Draco to an adorable twist of those very nice lips of his. He seemed at the most a tad irked, actually—certainly not in fear for his life. Draco sighed impatiently and concentrated on absorbing every word, for picking over.

Reluctantly—or so it seemed, Harry faced him. He seemed a bit hesitant, but still squared his shoulders.

"It's nothing big, alright? It's just a sleep disorder, Draco. Common enough; I bet lots of students here have them. Only just what they call 'persistent insomnia', left over from Voldemort being in my head all those years," Harry grimaced. "I mean to say, it's chronic now, but I'll be fine, in the end. That's why I'm here, to make sure I am. Pomfrey's this whole regimen she has me follow. Er—Draco?"

"But—that's _brilliant_, Harry!" Draco was practically bouncing off his awkward perch on Harry's cot, he was so damned glad to hear it. "I mean—that's nothing! Sleeplessness? Nightmares? Pfft! I've the same bloody—Dreamless, Harry. That's the cure! We can use the milder formula on you, since you're smaller than me. I swear, Harry, you'll be sleeping like a baby, least most nights!"

But this was excellent! Draco exulted. This sounded nothing so much as a natural outgrowth of those wicked nightmares he knew they both suffered through and if Pomfrey could manage to dispel them medically—magically—and Harry was really just as sound as he'd ever been, both of mind and of body, all was once again right with the world. Draco could begin to breathe normally again and not feel so damnably despond—

"I'll talk to Madam, as soon as possible, Harry. We can p'robly begin dosing you up tomorrow—_no_! I'll fly and fetch it right now! One shot won't harm you—"

"Draco," Harry eyed his visitor's excess of high spirits patiently.

"Thoug," Draco reconsinder, cocking his head to give Harry a once-over, "I should like halve it for you. Seeing as you're a good stone less than me."

"Draco!" Harry jabbed him in the upper arm familiarly. "_Oi_, Draco. Enough, already, okay? Dreamless aside, _I _want to know how ever did you manage to make your way in here? The Infirmary's always locked up at night—like Gringott's, or as bad as. Madam doesn't allow visitors past eight o'clock. Er…mostly. She's pretty bloody strict, too."

"Um, well…"

Draco grimaced, recalling his insanity. A brief bout, but highly worthwhile, as far as salutary learning experiences went.

"Um. Flew, but that's not important now, Harry. There's something—I mean, the other," draco gulped, halted and then restarted his speech, grimly. "Harry! What else I wanted to say to you? It's—and likely you know it already, but I should still tell you, I think; make it completely clear—no mistaking, so—I mean, there's Weasel, and I'm certain he'll likely tell you differently, but this_ is_ the truth, Harry, and nothing but—"

"You did? You flew here? But, Draco, that's super!" Harry smiled to beat the bloody band. He clapped an encouraging hand on Draco's shoulder and patted him. Hard. Draco hissed a bit, ducking; he'd slammed that entire side of his body into something gritty and quite adamantine on the way 'round the outside of a random tower wall and his feathers were still jangled in their sockets, ruefully recalling the impact. His very muscles felt bruised; he was likely black-and-blue and if Madam had a Pepper Up lying about unspoken for, he'd be scarpering away with it before too long. "Oh—I—erm," Harry turned a suddenly stricken gaze upon him. "Did I just hurt you? Sorry!"

Draco scowled fiercely at him, flapping a peremptory hand.

"Harry! Harry, I'm talking to you! Listen, will you please?"

"What?" Harry was startled. His eyes went wide and Draco leant closer, unable to prevent himself. "What is it, Draco?"

"Harry, look at me." When he did, Draco flushed and instantly glanced away. "Er, listen, rather. This may come as a surprise to you, but—but I."

"…Yes?"

"I…ah. Ah."

"…Yes? _What_, Draco? Out with it."

"I'm, ah, enamoured of…someone. A bloke."

"O…kay?" Draco wasn;t looking at arry so he'd no idea what Harry's face revealed; his voice was only just curious. "Go on."

"He's a—well, he and me, we've only recently begun speaking. Civilly." Or so Draco informed the wall.

"Mmm-hmm."

"And I find I'm quite attracted to him—which is a shocker, let me mention. Wasn't expecting_ that_."

"Alright."

"Ah...so, this person, this chap, he doesn't know how I feel. Understand?" Draco risked a glance at Harry, seeking some sort of response, as he'd not received much to go on. Harry was nodding, quite calmly.

"Go on, I'm listening, " he urged, clearly having no clue as to what Draco was implying. Draco's scowl made a reappearance.

"Harry, I'll come right out it—it's you. I'm enamoured of you. Er, with you. You, personally, that is. Yes, I, um," Draco had to pause to swallow, as his throat had turned to sandpaper mid-sentence, apparently, "_am_. Definitely."

There. Draco was miserable, but _there_—it was done, kaput, finished, over with and out there, flat on the table. Unavoidable, irrevocable—humiliatingly straightforward. And to use the word 'enamoured'—how incredibly lame!

Draco grimaced, more at himself than Harry. He couldn't even manage the word 'love'; could barely think it, even! He couldn't!

"You may've noticed."

There was no point to it, that's what. A few flying lessons a relationship did not make, any more than the odd chat whilst in class or on the way there. And Draco was a practical sort of person at the core. He knew. At the very outer utmost, Harry might consider himself to be Draco's friend, nothing more.

"But—I. I hadn't thought so, so I'm telling you now. And…I'm sorry about that, if that's of any help."

"Ah…"

Draco's nimble eyeballs skipped right over the flabbergasted look on Harry's face and turned to examining the coverlet draped over Harry's legs; it seemed much the safest choice of view. Not that he'd much left to hide.

"I mean to say, it's nothing," he added wistfully, as now he'd started spilling, he couldn't seem to stop. "I mean, it's _my_ nothing to deal with, not yours, Harry. Don't regard it—"

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"I, er…I see, Draco. That's, um—that's. Well."

Harry sounded very strange, as if he'd in haled some of the vapours from one the nastier portions. Draco sighed, bowing his head even more deeply in his gathering misery. He didn't wish to witness Harry's reaction to this unwanted, unasked-for, entirely off-the-cuff confession, even if he'd felt horribly compelled to make it known. True enough, Harry might remain his…friend, even after, but that meant not a bleeding thing when it came to matters of the heart.

Not a fucking, fucking thing.

"Um, Draco?" Harry's voice seemed very hesitant but at least it sounded the way it should. Draco glanced up and then immediately away again—this time to search the room for that spare Pepper Up he was in need of. "Er, question?" Perhaps Draco would be needing it for more than simply bruised muscles.

"Draco." Harry levered his person up fully, lounging back against the mound of second-rate pillows. He reached out a warm palm, only to lay it gently along the furrows etched across Draco's brow. "Did you happen to, ah, hit your head, recently? P'raps when you were on your way here? Not just bang up your ribs, I mean, but, er-um—your head, too? Around the temple area, maybe? Because, if so, there's charms—I can call Madam for you, straightaway. Concussion's not something to mess about with, Draco—it affects you more than you realize. Causes all sorts of strange fugue states and even alters personality—"

"NO!" The scowl Draco wore went from glum to fierce, instantaneously. "No, I did not, Potter! And I'll thank you to keep those sorts of insinuations to yourself. I'm in my right mind, okay? Fully cognizant! I know what I'm saying to you, damn it! I know what've I said, more like. It's just—it's only. Hell, Harry, _I_ only _had_ to say that you," he blurted the last, practically all in one breath. "Had to! And I did—and it's done, now. So, er...shut up! Don't mention it again, please? And I—I'm done with talking, I think. It's late—you're in need of more sleep, aren't you? Loads more. And I should be shifting off back to the dorms, as well, before we're both cast in the suds. Overstayed my welcome already," he added bitterly. "Like that's something new."

"Whoa!" Harry grabbed at the slippery strands of Draco's tumbled hair, possibly to stall his sudden move to bolt. "Wait a tick, Draco! I didn't mean—I don't want—hold up! Don't leave yet, git!"

Draco flinched, even as he revelled in Harry's rough touch. His scalp tingled and he could feel the swell of his silly prick between his legs perking up again, interested. Always interested, when it devolved down to Harry.

Bugger, but he _was_ a mortally slow git, a real emotional retard, blurting that out—even if his relief had been insanely freeing. Even if he'd not been quite able to contain himself, what with the feel of Harry's leg against his, and having his pash lying in a real bed, right under his nose, wearing only thin Infirmary-issue PJs and those not very made, either. Thin, the fabric was, and oft-washed, too. If he peered—and he had been, out of the corner of his greedy eyes—he could make out the shadows of Harry's nipples through the awning stripes.

Draco gulped. Teasing glimpses of nipples aside, he had some backpedalling to manage and right smart.

"I mean to say…no, Harry, I haven't hit my head, thanks, and no, I didn't mean to just come out with it—not that I could really help myself and—and yes, alright? That was true, what I just said, Harry. Potter. Whatever. And not what you wanted to know, clearly. For which I'm sorry—very sorry. My apologies, okay? But, um—there it is, yeah? And as for me, I'll just be…leaving. Take myself off, then. As you're apparently healthy enough."

"Wait up!"

Draco, babbling, half-rose from Harry's cot in aid of something urgent—the departure, the scuttling retreat he had to make, maybe—until Harry's other hand yanked fiercely at Draco's wrist and tumbled his person right back down again—and into an ungainly sprawl. All over the mattress this time, smothering Harry's warm body like a lid on a pot. His stubby, slight and above all enthrallingly fit body, clad only in half-buttoned PJs and a very thin, very wrinkled duvet. And feathers—for Draco's feathers were perforce all over the length of Harry's thrashing body, and they were finding naked bits of skin, here and there, as cloth rucked and rumpled this way and that.

"Come down here!"

His nearly naked body, the same one that Draco wanked to, like religion, every damned night and morning. Yearned for.

Gah! Fuck _me_! Draco's mind went mildly ballistic—all that warmth and hardness and softeness and all beneath him, intimately. _**Fuck**_. _Me_!

"Harry!" is what he said, though, aloud. "Harry."

He did struggle; feebly, yes, but to give himself some credit, he was actively fighting pretty much everything overwhelming his senses, from Harry's grip to his own inclinations—and failing, miserably.

"Wait just one sodding moment here, git," Harry ordered him, frowning his puzzlement at Draco's tortured face. It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest that Draco's weight was crushing him flat—or that there were feathers everywhere. "You're saying—you honestly telling me—you care for me, Draco? Is that it? You're—er, you're _serious_?"

"…Yes!" Draco hissed, and felt his nose do something odd (and likely beakish and ugly as sin) for a brief split-second. Then the sensation faded away, for which he could only be grateful. But his wings set up a great flap and bustle, and he had to raise his voice to ensure Harry heard him. "_Yes_, alright? And it's not just care, git—wishywashy wet word, that one! It's fucking love, Harry—and I can't help but feel it, alright? That's it in a nutshell, Har—_Potter_. Sorry," he smarmed, struggling harder. "I'm bloody sorry, okay? About that. The whole mess—so inconvenient." Draco gritted his teeth, snarling down at Harry, as otherwise he'd mouth-rape him and then where would they both be? "Of me."

"But, I—you," harry gasped."You never said!"

Draco growled at him. "Why would I, Harry? Think about it, git—why ever would I?"

There was little pause and Draco hurried to fill it up.

"Now, seeing as you're alright; that there's nothing to be concerned about here; all is swimming, ship-shape even—I'll be off now—catch you later—or_ not_; whatever you like. I—I'm sure I'll understand completely if you don't want anything further to do with me—and why every would—?"

"Arsehole! Berk!"

Veela were strong, physically. Draco had actually managed to gain an upright position in the flurry of natter, though Harry clung like a bloody limpet to his pinioned wrist.

"Let go, Har—_Potter_. I'm leaving."

"**STAY PUT**!" Harry roared, wiping out the furious whispers still echoing round the small private room with trademarked Gryffindor volume. Lee What'sIt, that Quidditch announcer once, years ago, couldn't have bettered Harry even with his magical amplifier cranked up to the highest volume! "Down, boy! Damn it, Draco! Don't go!"

"Shh! Silencio, moron!" Draco begged, desperate. "Be quiet! You'll have Pomfrey down on us, git!"

Oh, and Draco so did not require a detention, not on top of everything else! He was in the midst of being rejected and a detention would be just too much, damn it! Abominable! Had his Harry absolutely no sense of timing, at all?

"Kiss me."

"What?" Draco, busy with being caught up in the whys and whatnots of how he seemed to love even Harry's flaws, was startled.

"Oh, fuck it!" Harry hissed in return, eyes snapping with quick temper. Draco paused in his reverie, lured by the sparkle and glitter of a Harry afire. "Merlin's bollocks! If you want something done, you have to do it yourself, right?" He grabbed Draco by the shoulders and hauled him down again—for the second time, like a nearly drowned man—so he went sprawling all over Harry, wings flapping uselessly and stirring the air. "Fine! Whatever! _I'll_ do it, git, if you're too afraid of your own stupid shadow to bother. For pity's sake, Draco, wen you tell someone you like them, you snog them right after—oh! Oh-ommmph! Fssshnrrrgle! Ngh!"

"Mmm-hmmm," Draco purred happily, several moments after that sort of behaviour. "Yes, my sentiments exactly. And don't ever—ever, Harry!—dare say I'm afraid. I'm not afraid; I'm cautious—there's a difference, you know? Please do, for the future. Slytherins are cautious. We don't like impetuous people."

"Nnnnhh!" But Harry wasn't minding, he was snogging, and that was more than alright with Draco's Veela bits.

Indeed, never let it be said Draco Malfoy lacked courage, despite his small…issues. Or a sense of stick-to-it-tiveness. He stuck to Harry quite courageously, and despite the other boy's uncontrollable twitching and flailing. With saliva and perspiration and certain other bodily fluids acting as a form of primal glue.

"Are you planning to explain it to me now, Harry?" Draco murmured some immeasurable time later, playing happily with Harry's hair. Harry smoothed his wings in return and it was sheer heaven. "How this even happened? It would be nice to have some idea what goes on in this uncombed head of yours, seeing as you're pretty much inscrutable and I can't seem to quite read you, no matter how I try. I'd no clue you were even interested in men, much less me."

"Veela." Harry seemed to feel that one word did the trick, explaining all; Draco scoffed at him. "You know. Veela."

"Hah." Draco took advantage of the pause in snogging to inhale. "Yes, so? And…?"

"Your paternal grandmother was a Veela, right? I mentioned a while back I was reading up about Malfoys, didn't I? Did you not ever wonder _why_, prat?"

"Er…no?" Draco shrugged. "Should I have?"

"Brainless." Harry grinned fondly, nonetheless. "Because I felt you. I felt you, always there, hovering over me. Months and months now. Dreamt of wings and flying and fucking whilst flying—fucking strange,_ that_. Disturbing."

"Fucking hot, Harry!" Draco gasped, overcome by acrobatic visions that seared his inner eyeballs. "We must do it, sod it! We must do it _very soon_! I can fly now, you know? Really very well, if I do say so myself. Bet we can manage if we practice, Harry."

Harry snorted. "Yes, Draco. In any case, _you_ were what I dreamt of, waking and sleeping. Draco Malfoy. Which was very weird and odd, or so it seemed to me, yeah? You follow? Given everything. So…er, I did my research, right? Hermione's not the only brain gadding about in Gryffindor."

"Good," Draco pronounced, vastly pleased. "Glad to hear, Harry. Never thought you weren't smart, for the record, just a bit…thick. But I'm pleased you took the time to look into it, the Veela. For the children's sake, naturally. I'd hate for them to be only foolishly brash and not possess at least some sense of self-preservation—"

"Git! Come here, git!" Harry giggled, and drew Draco close again, and it was just as enthralling as any bloody manner of flying, wingéd or no. "Ridiculous git! Blathering on about children; we've not even shagged yet! Speaking of…kiss me again, hmm?"

The mention of shagging rather shortcircuited Draco's brain. He growled, but in a very pleased manner.

"Oh, yes…._yes_, Harry."

And there was no fear. Draco was most definitely flying, in as much as he'd been earlier with his great huge wings—maybe more so. Farther, higher, faster.

This time, he'd get it right, from the very start. Draco was certain.

Finite.


End file.
